


what's done in the dark will be brought to the light

by threeplusfire



Series: Bad Things Come In Threes [20]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Death, Fae & Fairies, Grief/Mourning, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Urban Magic Yogs, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: For years, the Garbage Court and their King of Misrule have been a thorn in the side of the city's fae court. When the conflict finally erupts, the city will never be the same.





	what's done in the dark will be brought to the light

**Author's Note:**

> A soundtrack I listened to intensively while working on this story.  
> <https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLfizctq-w5IcTTE0XNo3SvAX4QREjOgQt>
> 
> Dedicated to everyone - the ones still here and the ones gone - who inspired me to write, who beta read or comma checked, who talked stories with me about these beautiful monsters

Time passed in the city, but not always at the same speed for everyone. Years passed in human lives, time that was only a blink to some. The city endured.

Spring came to be stranger than usual. The weather whipsawed from beautiful days to violent storms, clear sunlight and flooded streets, wind stripped branches and wildflowers. The unpredictable weather was not overtly threatening, just enough to put a thread of unease in the city. A sinkhole swallowed an intersection. Pipes burst, and road crews dug up streets to repair the lines. Weeds cracked the sidewalk, shooting up overnight. The wind knocked down trees, traffic light poles and signs. A fire burned for most of a day at an electrical substation. It left part of the city powerless, The weather, the accidents, the chaos caused by the disruption of water and light unsettled human and fae alike. Everyone could tell something was different this year.

The day had begun hot and damp, the streets almost steaming under the sun and empty sky. It was only slightly better now after sunset. Things were drying out, even if the air was still warm and thick. The storms with their ice pellets and winds were drifting east. The city was used to a certain amount of dramatic spring and early summer weather shifts, but this year was more hectic than usual.

On the western edge of the city, the Garbage Court filled a dive bar in a dingy strip mall. Yellow light shone on the cracked parking lot. A heavy moon rose, low and enormous on the horizon. The neon sign for The Lost Well flickered on and off, sometimes just shining out as The Lost. Inside the blacked out plate glass, the linoleum floor was scuffed and dingy with spilled beer and cigarette ash. The bar’s main draw was a half dozen pool tables in the back. Faded photos were framed along the wall, past champions of regional tournaments. There were a handful of trophies behind the bar above the liquor bottles. Red and purple string lights crisscrossed the ceiling beams.

Sips leaned against the far wall, watching Ross play pool with a couple of the regulars. Captain stood up on their toes, leaning across the table to line up a tricky shot. Sips said something, and there was a burst of laughter.

“It’s not cheating,” Captain replied, giving their hips a good wiggle. “You just don’t know how to do it right.” They had a habit of going everywhere in shorts that stopped just at the top of their thighs, and a sleeveless hoodie. In the right light, it let one see the magical tattoos crawling up and down their arms and legs.

Smith was nowhere to be seen. Aside from the music it was fairly quiet. There were a few witches clustered in another booth, some of the Garbage Court trolls along the bar. The regulars were mostly human. There was a werewolf behind the bar, pouring beers for another group of pool players.

 

Nathan frowned around the dim room, looking out of place in his expensive suit. His glamour faded, revealing the horns jutting up from his heavy forehead. Hooves scuffed the floor as he stomped along the booths set against the wall opposite the bar. He ducked his head to avoid the low hanging light, and the red vinyl seat creaked under his weight.

“What brings you all the way down here?” Trott asked, setting his bottle of beer down on the scarred table top. He sat with his back to the wall, legs stretched out across the seat.

“I tried to call but my phone’s not working,” Nathan said morosely. “I guess you haven’t heard?” The minotaur’s face had a perpetually melancholy cast but he seemed even more unhappy tonight.

“Heard what?” Trott didn’t like the sound of this. Nathan never came to him with minor problems. He handled things on his own. Despite their tiny frames, his pixie crew was tough.

“Had a gang of protestors bust into Domain tonight during service.” Nathan paused.

“You’re joking,” Trott said. “How could anyone hate Domain?” The restaurant had just won another accolade, their chef honored for his creative menus and commitment to local sources. For years now it had reigned as one of the top restaurants in the city. Nathan had leveraged the success into a half dozen well regarded restaurants around the city, ranging from an all night diner to a classy Italian place with a deep wine cellar.

One of his ever present pixies appeared with drinks in her hands. She looked weary, her makeup smudged and some of the shine worn off her glamour. She was wearing a simple black sheath, her greenish gold hair pulled up in a bun. There was a fleck of something on her cheek that looked like dried blood.

“Vegans, that’s who. They smashed out the front windows, threw gobs of animal blood all over the dining room.” Nathan sipped at the vodka soda. “They were all wearing animal masks like something out of a bad movie.”

“What the fuck?” Trott almost laughed. He checked himself only because Nathan and the pixie looked so distressed. There were so many of those pixie girls and they all looked alike. Trott couldn’t keep them separate in his mind. He didn’t know their names. It was odd though to only see one with Nathan. Usually there two or three at least.

“It was a disaster,” Nathan growled. “The cops couldn’t get there fast enough. Half of them made off before they showed. The only reason the others got arrested was they were fist fighting with some of the customers, one lady thought she was having a heart attack and I had a waiter get cut pretty bad. It wasn’t like I could even drop the charm and charge out there, people had cameras and phones out.”

Trott made a sympathetic noise, letting Nathan keep talking. His words ran together, his monotone only broken by slight rises as his temper flared briefly.

“One of my girls got soaked in blood, and I’m hoping people were too panicked to see when the other girls got into the fight. And of course, someone tipped the press so it’s all over the news now. I’ll be closed for days to get everything replaced and cleaned enough for the health department.”

Trott frowned heavily. “That seems particularly aggressive for vegan protestors.”

“ _He_ put them up to it,” Nathan said. “I saw the technomancer kid, and a couple of his willowy little sidhe buddies laughing it up outside after. They’re probably who brought in the reporters.”

“Of course.” Trott’s mouth tasted sour. Kirin hadn’t moved openly on them in awhile. They were overdue for something.

“Things are repairable, but I’m going to lose money hand over fist with this shit.” Nathan took a long drink, grimacing. “Bad enough my supply costs have gone up so much. People do not go out to eat if they’re afraid something like this happening. The news coverage is going to kill me. I’ve got wedding rehearsal dinners booked for months, I can’t afford for them to cancel.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Trott said.

“I wouldn’t ask, but this is a rough time.” Nathan swirled the ice in his glass. “I’m having trouble with my liquor licenses. It’s petty bullshit, but it eats into what I’m earning. That’s why we turned the back space into a private dining room.”

Nathan threw a hand in the air. “Thank fuck we didn’t have a wedding party in there tonight!”

No doubt that trouble was coming from the same source, Trott mused. He rolled the beer bottle between his hands, glancing at the pool tables. Nathan’s pixie companion huddled closer to him on the other side of the booth. She sipped her drink and licked her lips, flashing sharp little teeth.

“I can make some calls. We’ll get you some cleaners for both problems.” He knew a commercial cleaning company that he could use. As for the vegans, Trott had some ideas. Just because they didn’t want to participate in the cycle of life didn’t mean they got to opt out when something hungrier and bigger came along.

“It would be helpful.” Nathan tapped his glass against Trott’s beer bottle, sealing the conversation.

“You owe me a beer!” Captain laughed, their voice loud and delighted. Ross grumbled, peering under the table. Trott caught Sips’ curious glance. He wondered what showed in his expression.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Trott watched the news, grumpily nursing a cup of coffee. The coverage of the protest segued into a story about meat substitutes coming to fast food places and he closed his laptop with a sigh. Staring at the corkboard over his desk in the back of Dirty Deeds, crammed with notices and bills and product promos, Trott considered his choices. He had a lead on the group of protestors, back of some absurd little collective on the south side. The next time they set foot on Garbage Court territory, they’d find themselves meeting the pack of werewolves who’d come in over the winter. They had a lot of mouths to feed. If those protestors could convince werewolves to go vegan, Trott would grant them a reprieve.

“Tal!” Trott yelled, putting one boot on the edge of his desk to push away. The chair wheels squeaked on the grimy looking floor.

“What’s up?” Tal appeared from the stockroom. With their white undercut and a plethora of piercings, sleeveless black shirt and skin tight black jeans, they looked like the ghost of punk rock. Their hands were covered in silver rings, no two alike. One of the longest lasting employees of Dirty Deeds, Tal seemed impervious to all situations. They performed all tasks with the same steady, unruffled attitude and resisted any attempts to hurry things along. Trott found that reliability rather comforting. Tal could be counted on to keep their mouth shut.

“I need you to run an errand for me,” Trott said. He grabbed a piece of paper from the stack beside the fax machine in the corner and scrawled out a handful of names.

“What kind of errand?” Tal raised an eyebrow, looking dubious. They hadn’t become the longest lasting employee at Dirty Deeds without learning a few things about the business behind the business.

“Go down to the tax office.” Trott folded the paper in half. “All the names on the list, get me addresses of whatever they own in the city.”

“I’m on the clock, right?” Tal paused. “Cause I need a lunch break and I might stop to get a hot dog if I’m down there.” The hot dog cart currently downtown was a minor local celebrity this year. The Hot Dog King was painted a lurid yellow and offered a dozen different sorts of hot dogs for the crowds at lunch and after the bars closed.

“Yeah, yeah.” Trott waved a hand dismissively and Tal stomped out in their scuffed boots. Leaning back in his chair, Trott stared at the water stains in the ceiling tile. He pulled on the chain tucked under his shirt. The garnet ring was strung on it, heavy and cold despite resting next to his skin. He tugged it along the chain, back and forth, while he thought about what they needed to do.

“What do you think?” Trott whispered to himself. “Is it time to do something about him?”

Trott had never imagined ruling a city. He still couldn’t, if he looked honestly enough at his thoughts. But he did daydream about how much easier it would be if they weren’t always distracted by the needling sidhe. He didn’t want to crave respectability but he did. Hard to leave behind those early parts of yourself, Trott thought. He tucked the ring under his shirt and went back to work.

 

* * *

 

Smith pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He’d swiped them from Sips earlier. They smelled like dead leaves and something chemical. He twirled it between his fingers. Somewhere in the darkness, frogs croaked and trilled from a backyard pond. Their weird, atonal song was loud, swelling and falling into irregular silences. Moonlight left blue shadows under the trees.

This part of the city center was in the midst of a protracted battle over what was worth saving and what would be bulldozed for new development. Smith was fairly certain he was older than some of the houses being designated as historical landmarks. He studied the rooflines of the old fashioned homes, the brick chimneys and the many windows staring blankly at the yard and the wrought iron fence that surrounded the property. It was an expensive neighborhood, full of old trees that curved over the street to form a green arcade. Kirin’s territory, not a place he normally hunted.

“So what are you going to do?” Ross asked. He stood idly beside Smith, arms loose at his sides.

“I was thinking I’d climb that big tree and drop over into the yard.” The old Victorian house across from them belonged to someone on the city council, someone who owed Kirin favors and had helped Kirin consolidate his hold on this wedge of the city center.

“There’s lights.” Ross pointed to the motion light on the side of the house. It illuminated the possum trundling along the fence line. “And probably some kind of alarm on the house. Someone’s going to notice.”

“But no one’s home, which will give us enough time to get this fire started.” It pleased Smith to think of the fire. The expected thing to do would be to use their natural affinity for water to wreak havoc. Burst some pipes, drown the original woodwork, short out the wires, flood the floors. But Smith preferred the heat and the smoke, the flickering light, the way it appeared and disappeared like magic.

“Seems a shame. It’s a nice looking house.”

“If this city gave a damn about ‘preserving heritage’ then they would have kept your church fixed up,” Smith said, making sarcastic air quotes with his fingers. Cigarette ash trailed to the ground. Smith dropped the unsmoked cigarette on the curb where it smoldered.

“Fine, whatever.” Ross grumpily swished his tail. “I don’t care.”

“Look, I’m going to jump the fence. I want you to crash through a couple yards going down the street. Rile up their dogs or something. Set off a car alarm. Just make a lot of noise and lead it all away from right here so no one’s watching me break into the house.”

Ross nodded, crouching down at the edge of the street. His eyes glowed in the dark.

Smith jogged over to the enormous tree cracking the sidewalk and leapt up to grab hold of one of the thick branches. It was easy enough to shimmy up the tree and over the fence. He waited, listening to the summer night. Insects buzzed, bats fluttered around the street lights. From an open window somewhere he could hear a television. The faint sound of human voices drifted through the air. It was humid, only the slightest breeze stirring.

There was a crash, and the racket of dogs barking. A light went on in the backyard across the street. Someone shouted at the dog. A screen door banged open and shut. The barking doubled, more dogs joining in the racket.

Grinning to himself, Smith dropped out of the tree and dashed along the line of hedges bent low to the ground. The motion light was on again but hopefully no one was looking this way. Around the back of the house was a door with big panes of glass. With his elbow, Smith smashed a hole and stuck his hand inside to unfasten the lock.

The kitchen was cool and silent. If there was an alarm, he didn’t see or sense it. It was a human home and there was not a single hint of magical protection. Just useless door locks and motion lights in the yard.

Moving quickly, Smith found the stairs and took them two or three at a time. The interior was a mix of the house’s old bones with boring, soulless bits of modern furniture. There were so many vases full of flowers. Smith swiped one off a table, enjoying the crunch of broken glass.

In the bedrooms, he rifled through drawers as he tried to make it look like a robbery. There was a jewelry box in plain sight. Smith dumped the contents into the reusable grocery bag he’d taken from the kitchen. It didn’t matter much what it was, if it was small and valuable, he dumped it in the bag. He dropped lit cigarettes to smolder in the beds, in the bathroom rug, in a closet.

The door to the attic was at the far end of the hall, a pull cord hanging from the ceiling to unfold the ladder. Smith climbed up and let his eyes adjust to the deeper darkness of the lightless space. It was raw wooden beams, plywood stretched over old insulation. There were half finished walls, but he couldn’t guess if that was demolition or construction. It didn’t matter. The spark from his lighter briefly lit up the space around him, crowded with boxes. Smith lit another cigarette, taking a drag this time. He grimaced. They tasted terrible, but Sips loved the damn things.

Smith pulled up the ladder, sealing the attic. Faintly, he could still hear dogs barking. He dropped the first cigarette on a cardboard box and left it there, still burning. Lighting another one, he looked around. Nothing smelled interesting up here. He found a trunk full of clothing which caught fire easily. Bits of lace shredded and burned. The smoldering scraps floated wistfully to the floor and Smith left a trail of embers in his wake. He dropped cigarettes all around.

With any luck, the fires would slowly ignite and merge into one singular inferno. A message.

It took a few sharp blows, but Smith managed to pry the shutters open on the attic window. The fresh air smelled good after all that time in the stale house. With his grocery bag full of trinkets, Smith carefully crawled out onto the roof. He watched the waving trees, the purple black night sky, and listened. The dogs were barking less now, mostly silent.

For ten minutes or so, Smith sat smoking on the roof. He tossed the half finished cigarettes back into the attic. After his last, he could smell the stronger smoke, the hint of fire eating into wood. The real show was starting. Grinning, he eyed the distance between the roof and the nearest trees.

“Hurry up!” Ross groused from the sidewalk. His voice caused Smith to stumble in his leap, and he crashed into the branches, sliding just shy of his target. He caught himself and dropped easily down to the grass of the neighboring yard.

“For fuck’s sake, Ross.”

“You’re the one taking so long,” Ross said as they loped towards the cross street and Smith’s car. “Why are we out here anyway? There’s not another arsonist in this city?”

“I told Trott I’d take care of it,” Smith mumbled as he slid into the driver’s seat. Bits of busted glass were scattered across the console and the dash.

“Since when do you volunteer to do anything?” Ross’ sarcasm was heavy.

“Everyone’s always telling me not to burn things down, you think I’m not going to jump at the chance to do it?”

Ross laughed, the sound low and lost in the engine rumble as they pulled away.

 

* * *

 

Trott crossed the street, jumping to the curb over the fast moving stream of water. The rain had come off and on all morning, creating little flash floods. In some places it only sprinkled, and in others the water surged all the way up to his calves. He hadn’t bothered with a raincoat or an umbrella, letting the cool rain slick his hair back against his scalp. His grey hoodie was damp. He’d tucked his jeans into his boots to keep them from soaking up water as he crossed the empty streets of downtown.

He paused under the awning of a closed sandwich shop as thunder cracked overhead and the rain turned into bits of hail peppering the street. The ice bounced and rolled across the sidewalk. A newspaper box against the building showed the day’s headlines about a plague of arson in some of the city’s richest neighborhoods. The picture was of a half ruined mansion surrounded by fire trucks. Trott grinned at it. The hail slackened and melted back into rain, leaving ice to melt under Trott’s boots.

The clouds thickened, and the light grew dim like twilight despite the early hour of the morning. It was odd not to see a car, or anyone. The unpredictable storms probably kept some people inside. But something else was at play, keeping the streets silent. He didn’t come down here much. This part of the city was not their territory, too new and shining. It wasn’t really Kirin’s territory either, as developers ripped out anything old or green. What it would become hadn’t shown itself yet.

The enormous tower was mostly finished, at least from the outside. The glass panels reflected the grey sky, making the building shimmer as if it longed to disappear. Trott tipped his head back to look at the top. It made him think of a crown, the way the glass and steel panels angled themselves into points. There was a circular gap, covered in plastic sheeting, for a window or a clock.

Chain link fences surrounded the lot, tipped with razor wire. He had no trouble sliding in a gap and crossing the broken ground at the tower’s base.

Inside the lobby doors he paused. An atrium stretched up into darkness. His boots echoed on the marble floor of the lobby. Wan light trickled in from the mostly covered windows, enough to show it was dusty and empty. Trott let his eyes adjust, searching the gloom for any sign of life. No one greeted him. The tower had an air of abandonment, as if life had fled.

Fortunately, Trott looked down again before he crossed the wide expanse of floor. This time he noticed the pattern, the dark within the light of the marble. An elegant circle filled the space, and a star within it. He almost laughed aloud, imagining someone building the lobby to be the city’s largest summoning circle. He gave it a wide berth as he moved around the lobby.

The elevator bank was dark. The building didn’t seem to have any electricity. Trott frowned and searched for the emergency stairs.

Climbing 72 floors took time. Trott did not stop as he rounded the landings. It was one of the rules of this sort of visit. Someone else might have paused to listen at a closed door, or to peer inside one conveniently cracked open on a dark hallway. He listened to his breath, the scrape of his boots on the concrete steps. Narrow slit windows of frosted glass let in just enough light to see. Every time he reached another, he half expected to find someone waiting there in the gloom.

Time seemed not to exist in the stairwell. Some time later he reached the landing at the top. Sweat slicked his skin, adding to the humid funk of the stairs. Trott put his fingers on the wall. Silence rang in his ears, then the distant rumble of thunder.

It would not be polite to come empty handed. There was a landing here, and past the door was a red box meant to contain a fire extinguisher. It was empty. Trott unzipped his hoodie and pulled out the plastic grocery bag he’d kept tucked inside. A bottle of wine, summer pink. A plastic necklace, the beads flecked with glitter and the charm of a unicorn. One of the brownies Ross made yesterday, chocolate and walnuts crumbling in a paper towel. Jewelry from one of the houses Smith burned down, a tangle of gold chain and a pair of earrings set with sapphire teardrops and tiny diamonds. Trott carefully placed the items in the red box.

There was a faint click from the door. With a deep breath, Trott pulled it open.

 

The top floor was directly beneath the tower’s crown. A ladder on the wall beside the door was labelled “ROOF ACCESS” in large white letters. The entire floor was empty of walls, seemingly unfinished. The plastic sheeting covering the circular gaps on all four sides rippled with the wind and rain.

Everywhere, there were crows. They perched silently on stacks of sheetrock and wood, watching. Trott stared back and then walked carefully along the empty path to the center of the room. An ancient throne sat there, looking more like a bench with curved armrests. The stone was pale marble, streaked with rusty lines like dried blood. It stood alone, the floor swept clear of the construction detritus. The wooden floor was dull and unmarked. Not even a footprint or a shadow of a wing disturbed the dust.

The witch queen stared at Trott. One hand rested on her cheek, long fingers with nails filed to sharp points that tapped against her smooth skin. The epicanthic folds over her eyes and the kohl beneath them enhanced the strange darkness of her pupils. They were all colors at once. Her skin gleamed the color of old whale teeth, worn smooth with time. The black feathers in her hair, at her lashes, shifted with her breath. She wore a high necked black dress, long sleeves that came to her wrists. On her head rested a crown, silver set with moonstones and other pale gems.

Trott bowed, an old gesture he had not used since he left home. He tipped his head forward so all he could see was the boards of the floor. His calves tensed, feeling the strain of his bent knees. His hands hovered in the air at his sides. It made him deeply uneasy, to discover his prospective ally was one of the witch queens. This changed the game entirely.

“I have not seen you since you were in your mother’s belly,” the witch queen said. “What did she name you, prince of the sea?”

Trott straightened slowly. “Here I am called Trott. Though I am no prince, not anymore.”

“That’s not something you can give up.” She smiled slightly. “Trott. A good choice for this place, to use a name that is a word common enough to hold no power.”

“One learns to survive.” He shrugged, indicating a weariness with the world. “How would you like to be called here, Lady?” Trott smiled slightly, hoping belatedly it was not too feral. He was out of practice with dealing with royalty like this. The witch queens had not survived so long by lightly giving their names. The three of them carried a score of names in their pockets, and Trott thought it wiser to ask than to assume he knew what she might use here and now. People, even powerful beings, liked to be asked.

“For now, I will be Morrigan again.” She held out a hand and one of the birds flapped to her, croaking.

“Will your sisters also be joining you here?” Trott asked, glancing around.

Morrigan smiled and looked at her nails. They gleamed with a hint of silver. It made him think of knives. Her silence on the subject did not give Trott any hint as to the answer. It made him uneasy. The sisters were not often united, but they did not tend to stray too far from each other for long.

“How is your mother?” Morrigan released the bird. It fluttered heavily in the damp air, escaping through a ragged gap in the plastic sheeting on some errand.

“She returned to the waves a long time ago, Lady Morrigan.” Trott’s hands fluttered up, making a selkie gesture for diminishment. They returned to the waves, a death to this world. It wasn’t quite always permanent.

“Ahh.” Morrigan inclined her head. “A shame. I would like to have spoken to her again. She was lovely.”

Trott shifted back on his heels and looked at her. She wore her considerably power lightly, a witch queen older than most everyone he’d ever met. But it was there, beating with the heart in the body she wore. Trott wondered if that body had belonged to someone else, someone unwise enough to attempt to commune across the vast gulf of shadow with the witch queens. Or perhaps she had commissioned it, built it from desire and memory. No one had seen them in a century. The selkie court had marked Morrigan’s visit as if it were a high holy day. His mother had told him the story of Morrigan resting a hand on her pregnant belly. She’d believed it was a blessing. His father thought it a curse, a justification he used when Trott was cast out.

“You didn’t come here and now just to talk about my mother.” It made him uneasy, to wonder if some part of his life was coming full circle. He couldn’t see what it meant yet.

“I did not.” Morrigan straightened, her regal bearing making her seem larger than life. “You can feel it, can’t you? How the city is balanced on the edge of a knife.”

“It’s always been that way.”

“Not like this.” The queen shook her head. Around her the birds shuffled in the gloom. Rain beat against the tower.

“What’s not finished has torn all the old ways,” she continued. “Things once bound in the dark, and in the light, have grown restless.” Her eyes pierced Trott with an accusing stare. “You will destroy us all with such recklessness if you continue to blindly challenge it.”

“We have no intention of destroying anyone. And if you truly believed what you just said, why send your message? Why offer your alliance?” Trott rolled the ring in his palm, the garnets heavy and dark.

Morrigan turned away, her face contemplative.

“You’ll find that as you grow older you can be swayed by very old grudges or very simple affections,” she said after a moment.

A part of Trott desperately wanted to know what Kirin had done to earn such a terrible enmity. He did not think he could afford to ask such a question though. Not now. Perhaps it was enough to know his mother’s story had been the true one. It was something he would have to think about later.

“What common ground is there for us now?” Trott lifted a hand. “I have no desire to kill the King.”

“He will die, eventually,” Morrigan replied. “Mortals do. But perhaps there is another way to end the ritual.”

“Dangerous ways.” Trott had thought about this. About bloodletting, about the possibility of bringing Sips back from the dead once the magical bond was severed between the crown and his life.

“Nothing like that,” she said. “A transfer of power, instead.”

“A transfer of power,” Trott echoed. “How? And to what?”

“There are ways to change the nature of things.” This time Morrigan smiled slightly, her lips curving for a brief moment. “You should consider what it is you want, and if you are willing to bear the cost.”

“I want my court alive,” Trott said curtly.

“There were easier ways to take a mortal, you know.”

Trott shrugged ruefully. “Things happened. It was not planned.”

“You know this will end in death,” she said. Her eyes were back on Trott, their darkness shot through with the color of sunlight and rain.

“I know,” Trott answered. “But it will not be ours.” He did know. He only hoped it would not be the death of anyone he loved. He hoped he could still find a way to wriggle their way through the gap and survive. For all their plays at power, Trott’s truest wish was survival.

The witch queen watched him for another moment.

“It will all end as it should,” she said. “I cannot change the nature of the ritual already done. But I will not let the sacrifice be out of balance. The seat of the world shudders when things swing too far, and I would not like to see it torn apart over one man.”

Trott nodded and touched his chest, leaning forward again.

“Your wisdom is welcome in this troubling time.”

“Walk lightly, prince of the sea.” Morrigan drew herself up, and Trott knew he was dismissed. He slipped back out to the stairwell, feeling the hundreds of tiny eyes watching him go.

 

* * *

 

By the time he made it back to the northern side of the city, the day was so dark it felt like twilight. Street lights flickered on as he walked. The more power outages they had, the more Trott wondered. It wasn’t just a city outstripping its infrastructure. Someone was messing with it and he had a good idea who that might be.

The rest of his Court were home, and Trott felt an intense pang of relief to see them. His knees nearly buckled, the dread he had not acknowledged releasing its hold in his chest as he tossed his sodden hoodie over the back of a chair.

“Trott, there’s lasagna,” Ross called out. “I found a recipe.” Ross leaned back against the couch, where Sips and Smith lounged with plates in their laps.

“Sounds good, sunshine.” Trott peeled his shirt off, ignoring Sips’ wolf whistle as he bent to yank off his boots.

“Where have you been?” Sips asked, following Trott into the kitchen.

“Meeting,” Trott said, his voice curt. The tension in his shoulders pulled them towards his ears. He grabbed a plate out of the rack. The smell of food made his stomach gurgle.

“Some meeting, huh?” Sips handed Trott a fork. He watched as Trott cut into the pan of lasagna on the stove. His arms folded, button down shirt open over his undershirt, he looked like a gambler after a long day.

“I don’t like it.” Trott shoveled food into his mouth. He was exhausted and ravenous, as if he’d spent an entire day swimming against the current. His meeting had only felt like moments but he’d spent hours there in the strange slipstream time around the witchqueen.

The lasagna was rich, full of a bechamel sauce and mushrooms, layered with a thick, wine sweetened tomato sauce. There were big chunks of sausage spiced with fennel and soft cooked onions between the pasta. Cheese made a crunchy, salty top layer. Sips reached over and used the spatula to slice off another few bites that he ate straight out of the pan.

“We’ve got problems if there’s another player at the board,” Trott continued. He looked grim and it made Sips uneasy. Trott always looked grim but there was something else this time. Something from today weighed on him.

“So it’s chinese checkers instead of chess.” Sips shrugged, leaning back against the fridge. He knew better than to try to pry straight away. Trott would come out with it when he was ready.

“More like someone’s come up to the board and she’s deciding if she’s going to watch or play herself.”

“How bad is that for us, if she does flip the table?”

“Maybe good?” Trott swallowed another hasty mouthful. “I don’t know Sips, and I don’t like it. Why is she here? That’s what I don’t understand.”

“Well, there’s fuck all to do tonight.” Sips put his own plate down in the sink. He put a hand on Trott’s shoulder, squeezing. “So relax.”

 

A hot shower to scrub away the film of sweat and dread helped. Trott let the water run over his face. He kept turning the meeting over in his head, trying to find clues in the words or in the silences. Obviously, Morrigan was here for something. But damned if he could figure out what. His best guess was a settling of old scores, something Kirin had done or not done to earn her enmity. If that was something he could leverage to ensure Sips’ life, and the safety of their weird little court family, he had to try.

Rubbing at himself with the cleanest towel he could find, Trott wandered back into the bedroom. Ross was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a squirming Smith by his arms. Trott dried his hair as he watched Smith’s legs tremble, the muscles in his thighs twitching as he lowered himself onto Ross’ cock. Sips stood in front of them, watching with his perpetual smirk. He’d lost his trousers and wore a pair of luridly purple boxers.

“See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Sips teased. He reached forward to take Smith’s chin, tipping his head up. “Told you could take it all in one go.”

“Fuck you,” Smith panted. His hips rolled as he tried to settle himself.

Sips’ fingers tightened in Smith’s shaggy hair, making him grimace. “Mind your mouth.”

“What’s this?” Trott asked, letting the towel fall to the floor.

“Your turn, Trotty.” Sips pulled a chair he’d dragged in from the kitchen and sat down in front of Smith. He patted his lap, stroking his erection with one hand.

Trott laughed, sharp and short. With a shrug, he allowed himself to be pulled into Sips’s lap. They didn’t waste much time on the preparations, and Trott hissed at the sting when he pressed his hips back to sink down on Sips’ cock. They were close enough that his knees could almost touch Smith’s where he sat on Ross. Smith huffed a breath, the muscles in his legs flexing. Ross kissed his shoulders. Trott wanted to just stare at them, drinking in the sight of two of his favorite people, the way Smith looked more flushed beside the coolness of Ross’ marble skin.

Sips’ hands stroked Trott’s thighs, and Ross mirrored him. His hands traced aimless patterns on Smith’s legs. Trott tuned out the sound of their voices. Instead he focused on Smith’s face, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek. They rocked, trying to match their movements to each other. Smith leaned in, catching Trott in a hot and messy kiss. His lips dragged over Trott’s skin, seeking his mouth impatiently. Smith’s hands gripped Trott’s shoulders hard enough to bruise.

“See, Ross?” Sips panted. “Told you this would be worth it.”

Ross laughed and stroked Smith faster, twisting his wrist to wrong moans out of him. Trott bit his lip, clinging to Smith as he bounced on Sips’ lap. Shivers of anticipatory delight ran up his spine. He didn’t know who came first, whether it was him or Sips, or if maybe Smith had beaten him to it. All Trott knew was the pleasure running from his head to his feet, the taste of Smith’s mouth on his, the press of their bodies in a complex tangle. It was enough to unknot the last of the tension from his shoulders as he slouched back against Sips in the chair. Sips kissed his neck, wiping sticky hands on Trott’s stomach.

“Guess I need another shower,” Trott said and Sips laughed.

 

* * *

 

Spring gave way to summer, the first hot days searing the damp city. Gradually it dried out as the days stretched longer. Twilight did not fall until late, the sun turning slowly across the sky. Every day was a little longer than the one before it.

The storms did not vanish entirely. Winds swept down from the north, bracing chill that foamed into storm clouds. The sky turned into rippled jade and winds bent the trees. A construction crane crashed into an apartment building, gouging a hole in the side on the way down.

Skirmishes trailed across the city, fires and electrical meltdowns that scarred buildings. A building was knocked down to build a block long park space. A strike by the sanitation workers’ union left garbage in the streets for two long weeks. A spate of violent road rage incidents clogged traffic, including one memorable incident where two people fought in the midst of the street after a minor traffic accident during rush hour while horns honked and pedestrians watched.

The city was boiling, the heat softening the streets and wilting the leaves. Birds panted with open beaks from their perches. Eggshells littered the ground under trees. Flowers drooped in the heat of the day. The news warned of rolling blackouts as the demand for electricity spiked.

It was hot already that morning, the sunlight thick and yellow with a hint of green. Smith sniffed at the air as they walked to the curb, wondering if it would rain. The sky overhead was cloudless, so blue it hurt. It reminded Smith of overripe fruit, tipped just past perfection and into the beginning of rot.

“Come on Smiffy, hurry it up.” Sips grumbled as he pulled on the car door. It was an older golden Chrysler, with a fuzzy velvet interior and a vinyl hardtop weathered from decades on the roads. Smith had to lean across to unlock the passenger door. It was too old to have electronic locks, but Smith liked it this way. The radio worked, the engine ran, the tires were in good shape. He didn’t need much more from it.

Sips wore one of his bowling shirts, black and red with his name carefully embroidered over the left pocket. He slung his bag into the back, the bowling ball thumping down heavily. He adjusted his cap to a jaunty angle and scratched at his chin. Even when he shaved, Sips seemed to have a permanent shadow along his jaw.

“I hate this time of year,” Sips said as he fiddled with the vents. The air conditioner chugged reluctantly as Smith hauled the ancient car through traffic. The bowling alley wasn’t far but the drive took longer than usual. A broken water line had partially closed a street and detours through neighborhoods were slow. Smith drummed his fingers on the wheel, impatient with the drive.

“It’ll cool off in a minute,” Smith said, only half paying attention to Sips’s complaints.

“Maybe we should go out of town for a few days,” Sips suggested.

“Maybe.” Smith let his head fall back against the seat. “We’ll have a break after the party, I think.”

“Oh right, that’s soon.” Sips sighed and made a face. “It’s too hot to be standing around in a warehouse with a bunch of sweaty drunks crashing into each other.”

“Should order up a kiddie pool for you.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Smiffy.”

There were a few cars in the lot, the usual sort of midweek crowd. Sips smoked as they crossed the black, steaming lot to the double doors that promised the sweet relief of dimmer light and air conditioning. He crushed the cigarette against the enormous concrete urn that served as an ashtray. No one waited outside to greet them with a casual wave. It was too hot even for the smokers, not a hint of shade at the front of the building.

Inside, the music seemed too loud. It echoed off the empty space. Sips frowned at the front counter, empty of the usual guy who rented shoes and made change for the game machines. He half turned, looking at the lanes where a handful of people ordinarily clustered for practices. No one was there.

“What the fuck?” Sips said, just before the lights went out.

 

* * *

 

The stack of mail sat on his desk, untouched, while Trott read through the notice again. Some zoning change meant the city council was going to try to kick them out as a public health hazard. Trott sighed heavily. It was retaliation and expected but he found this particularly annoying. The shop was a strangely reliable thing, a place to funnel through the cash of less legal businesses and a front that gave them shelter in the human city.

The office door swung open and Ross trudged in. “I can’t get a signal on my phone at all, can you?”

“Hmm. I don’t know.” Trott picked up his phone, and glanced disinterestedly at the screen. It looked fine. “Did you drop yours again?”

“No,” Ross answered defensively. “It’s just not working. I can’t make a call.”

There was a shout from the front of the shop. Ross was gone before Trott could even push his chair back. Out front their newest employee Astyd stood behind the register in his ASK ME HOW TO GET OFF shirt. But instead of facing an armed robber or someone pissing on the magazine rack, he stared at Smith. Trott whipped his gaze around the store. Luckily for them it was empty at the moment. Ross peered out the front window, searching for signs of trouble.

Smith leaned heavily against the door, leaving a bloody handprint on the glass. His shirt was torn and bloodied. His face was battered, and he was missing a tooth. A bruise was already darkening his right eye. He had a cut on one arm, the blood clotted in a thick line. It had dripped down past his elbow, along the underside of his forearm, leaving a trail of drops behind him.

“Smith, what the fuck?” Trott snapped. “Why do you look like shit? Where’s Sips?”

“They took him.”

Ross froze, something chill and hard settling in his features. “Who?”

Smith spat blood on the floor, and Astyd swallowed some profanity, one hand coming up to cover his mouth. The blood was dark, almost black in the fluorescent light of the shop.

“Uh, I should get some gloves to clean that up,” he muttered. His bracelets rattled nervously as he rummaged under the counter.

“Astyd, we’re closing for the afternoon. Go on home.” Trott touched his shoulder, willing a little forgetfulness into his new employee. Astyd stopped, his eyes glazing. He up the paperback beside the register where he’d been reading after restocking the condoms and lube on the wall. Impatiently, Trott shepherded Astyd out the back door before hurrying back into the shop. He locked the front door and yanked the CLOSED sign down on the window shade.

“It was Will,” Smith ground out from between his clenched teeth. “Will and some of the horned bastard’s goons. Drow, I think. Never seen them before.”

Ross’ tail lashed anxiously.

“Will wouldn’t hurt Sips…” he said, hoping that words would make it true. Smith cut him off with a snarl.

“I think he’s a little bitter about that time we threatened to sacrifice him in Sips’ place.” Smith wiped at his face, blood still leaking from his mouth. “He didn’t seem shy about hurting anyone. That little prick electrocuted me.”

Ross sighed. He had not seen Will in ages, not even in passing. There was no telling if any of him remained that Ross would recognize.

Distantly, as if he was watching a movie, Trott saw himself moving to grab a handful of paper towels from behind the counter. He beckoned Smith forward, thinking only that he needed to clean him up before he could decide what to do.

“What happened, exactly?” Trott asked as he wiped brusquely at the blood on Smith’s face. He pressed a hand to Smith’s chest where someone had stabbed him close to his collarbone. Smith winced, shifting as endured Trott’s ministrations.

“We walked into the bowling alley, which seemed totally fine from outside. But inside, everyone was gone and just as I started to get the feeling it wasn’t right, that sorcerous little fuck boy cut the lights.” Smith yelped as Trott did something, some piece of magic that sliced into him cold and sharp. But it relieved the stinging pain of the puncture, and Smith slowly relaxed.

“Bunch of big ugly bastards jumped me, and when the lights came back on I could see one of them holding Sips up. Your boy was there, looking all pleased with himself.” The last he spat at Ross.

Ross’ tail lashed back and forth, but he didn’t answer Smith’s provocation.

“What did he say?” Trott grabbed Smith’s chin to bring his attention back.

“Something stupid about fixing the city, I don’t know.”

“Smith! What. Did. He. Say.”

“That they’re going to finish the ritual.” Smith’s eyes flickered, green streaked with an oil slick. “Tonight. In the park.”

“Then we’ll go to war,” Trott said. It was simple. The words just came right out before he’d even finished thinking them. It was war, open war that could go either way. It wasn’t the path Trott would have chosen but there was no other way to go. The choice had been made for him.

“Fuck,” Smith snarled. He smashed his hand against the counter by the register. A spiderweb of cracks spread out beneath it. Ross stared at them, very silent and still. His eyes glowed faintly as he turned to look out the front of the shop again.

Trott dropped the bloody paper towels on the floor and stalked back into the office. He felt strangely empty, cold and clear like deep ice. All the scheming and maneuvers didn’t matter now. Trott touched the garnet ring under his shirt and decided to make Kirin regret underestimating his enemies.

He needed to make some calls, set things in motion. Pulling out his phone, Trott tried to make a call. It kept searching for a signal, unable to connect.

“Jam my phone, Will, it won’t stop me,” Trott muttered. “I’m coming for you.” From the messenger bag by his desk, he pulled out a knife.

 

* * *

 

 

The enormous park downtown was mostly empty of people, driven home by the storm warnings and ominous weather. Power had already gone out in parts of the city, lines swept down in the wind, surging in others. Thunder cracked in the twilight as purple and red clouds accompanied the setting sun. A hot wind gusted, shaking leaves out of the trees. Sometimes a cold spatter of rain fell, but nothing more than a gasp. A violent storm warning repeated itself on the radio and the local news, urging people to stay home and seek shelter. The restaurants along the wide boulevard were all closed and the ice cream truck was gone.

But the park wasn’t empty. A significant number of the city’s fae were there. Others were no doubt in hiding, waiting for this storm to pass. Trott had summoned everyone who owed their court, and everyone he thought might hate Kirin more than they hated him. Fae thronged under the trees and across the grass. Humans scattered amongst them, looking small and fragile between the trolls and the sidhe.

Zoey’s coven looked determined and frightened, clumped together in their bright clothes. Trott warned them, and they’d come anyway. The witches carried silver and iron. They were more formidable than many supposed. Surviving in a city seething with creatures all too happy to gobble up power and lives meant they had to be. The fae gave them a wide berth, except for the werewolf girl that Zoey had taken up with lately. She stood there looking angry and enormous beside the witches, growling as if she dared anyone to start a fight.

Trott, Ross and Sips moved through the park and the crowds parted for them. The humanity was draining from their faces, even in the changed forms they wore. Trott’s skin was belted round his waist. Smith’s keys jingled as he walked, his teeth bared as he observed the crowd. Behind them, Ross followed with heavy steps that left prints of his bare feet in the ground. He carried the heavy wooden bat in one hand. They gathered a crowd behind him, restless and churning. Arguments broke out, shoving and threats. Violence simmered in the air between the members of Kirin’s court and the ragged bunches of fae and humans who owed their loyalties to the Garbage court.

One of the trolls roared as a sidhe stabbed at it with a spear, forcing it away from the group clustered near the fountain. A drow tried to push his way closer, shoving at the members of the Garbage court forming a protective wedge behind Trott, Ross and Smith. He tangled with a tall witch wearing a green dress and black tights, her black hair loose around her shoulders. Dexanari pushed back, an angry curse springing from her lips. From her shadow, Cooper slipped out with a knife. They were short, and the drow didn’t even notice them. Blades flashed, blood falling black on the grass. The drow screeched as it fell at Cooper’s feet. Dex’s hands lifted, drawing a line around them so that a wave of power pushed back the other drow. More scuffles and shoves broke out as the courts pushed up against each other. Someone screamed, high and thin. Bodies fell in the grass.

There was an enormous stone fountain near the center of the park, a cross roads for the sidewalks and a small plaza. The water was off, the fountain empty and dry. Kirin was there, his horns shimmering as his glamours faded away. Sitting on the edge of the fountain was Sips, looking weary and disgruntled. Will stood at his shoulder, arms crossed over his pinstripe shirt. He could not resist smirking at their approach. A glowing ring encircled the base of the fountain, Will’s magic at play.

“You wanted a fight, you got one,” Trott called out. “Get your fucking hands off our King.”

“He’s no true king,” Kirin scoffed. “He’s a mortal, a sacrificial lamb. This perversion will end tonight.”

“You have no grounds to interfere with the responsibilities of another court,” Trott warned. “You’re crossing the line.”

“It is what has to be and must be done to restore the natural order of things,” Kirin intoned. His voice was the rumble of summer thunder. When the lightning flickered overhead in the purple sky, his horns were visible. Dressed in the style of the old fae courts, his clothes glimmered with golden embroidery on green velvet.

Electricity glowed and sparked between the lights ringing the fountain. Will looked ghastly in the light, his eyes shadowed and his lips pressed in a firm line. He touched Sips’ shoulder, making him cry out with the shock. In the distance, Ross could see the lights go out in part of the city. Lightning flared from the storm, branching behind the skyscrapers downtown.

“Nothing personal,” Will said sarcastically. “Just tying up loose ends. Fixing your mistakes. Cleaning up.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Sips groaned. “Spare me the villain speech and get it over with.”

Smith changed. Trott could barely hold him back now. He was no longer a man or a horse but something wet, made of bone and fury. His eyes rolled, a deeper blackness in the slickness of his shifting skin. Ross could barely understand Smith’s words, but the intent was clear. Rage, and a promise. Those near them edged further away from the growing nightmare.

“Kill him,” Kirin said. “Time to fix the city. You must do it, Will. Now.”

Will lifted a silver knife, the blade flashing in the light. Sips leaned away, pulling hard at the magical bonds that held him to the rim of the fountain.

“No!” Ross shouted. It was too much for him. He could not watch another moment of this. He ran several steps and leaped, landing hard enough to shatter the concrete paving. The sound echoed like thunder across the park.

Kirin moved to stop Ross but Smith moved faster. He flung himself at the fae lord, howling for blood and vengeance in a voice that caused the crowd to flinch. No one in the city had ever seen a kelpie like this, in their oldest, strangest shape. Smith crashed into Kirin hard enough to knock him over, a whirl of black and green. They tumbled, snarling and struggling. The crowd scattered around them, not wanting to be within reach.

Ross stepped into the crackling electrical circle at the base of the fountain. His arms lengthened, his fingers hooking into claws. Ross could feel his face shifting, his jaw changing. It took only seconds but it felt like a lifetime, time moving slower and slower. He swung his bat at Will, forcing him to look away from Sips. With a tremendous crack, the wood splintered and exploded in Ross’ hands as Will struck it with a jolt of electricity. The power glided off his stone, sparking between his horns and along his tail. He could feel it trying to shatter him, seeking to pull him apart. There was a cracking sound, glass splintering and Ross felt the pain all the way to his core. Grimly, he kept moving forward.

Will gaped at him. For the first time, a flicker of fear appeared in his face.

“Stay back!” he warned. “I mean it!”

“Will, no!” Ross lurched forward, his hands out to try to wrest the knife away or shield Sips. In a panic, Will swung the knife down. It skittered along Ross’ arm, cutting a long gash before it slid off. Sips grunted as the blade sank into his side between his ribs. Whatever spell Will cast with the blow twined into both of them, a white hot pain that crackled and sparked.

Ross looked up, howling. He was in time to see Trott pull his own blade across Will’s throat in a single movement. Will’s face flashed with surprise, then shock as the pain arrived. He let go of the silver knife, bringing his hand up to where blood was starting to flow out of the line across his neck. It spilled like wine, red and thin. His wide eyes met Ross’ for a brief second before he sank to his knees and collapsed onto the ground. The circle of lights dimmed before bursting with a sharp pop. Beyond the park, the lights started flickering back into the city buildings.

“How dare you!” Kirin shouted. He flung Smith away from him with a shuddering effort. There was black blood on his green, a jagged wound to his cheek where his flesh hung in tatters. “His life was mine!”

Some of Kirin’s fae muscled through the crowd trying to reach them. Jimmy and his troll brothers pushed back, holding an uneasy line of violent blows. The sounds of fighting were louder, more chaotic. It smelled of blood and ozone. Ross gathered Sips into his arms. He could feel him breathing. Ross could feel his own magic swelling against his skin, fighting with whatever came from the knife. It hurt, more than anything he’d ever felt.

“Fucking hell,” Sips groaned. “That hurt like a sonofabitch.” The magic holding him fast was gone. He scrunched his eyes shut, knocking his head against Ross’ shoulder. One hand pressed to the wound in his side, blood spilling out in dark rivulets.

“You swore Sips was safe in exchange for Will’s life,” Trott snarled, his voice booming. “Oldest trade in the book. And you’re the one who broke your word. You mess with my court, and try to kill my king, and you don’t think I won’t demand blood for it?!”

“He’s not dead yet,” Kirin growled and Ross curled himself protectively around Sips. He could see Smith getting to his feet on the other side of the fountain. Ross wondered if the three of them could kill Kirin, if they stood a chance.

A storm of birds swept over the park, crying out in one voice. Their wings sounded like a waterfall, a crashing rush. The wind moved with them, making the crowds in the park flinch and cover their heads. From the darkness, Morrigan stepped forward in a dress of shimmering black and silver. The high collar and long sleeves covered everything but her face and her hands. The long train dragged through the grass. On her head, the gems in her crown glowed with an opalescent light.

Her presence gave everyone pause. Even Kirin looked wary in the moment, confronted by a presence older than himself.

“But the man is dying,” Morrigan said. “They both are. So in truth, you owe something for attempting two sacrifices.” Her voice was cool and clear, carrying across the length of the park so all could hear her.

“The spell was only meant for one,” Kirin grimaced. “That wasn’t the intention. The other was an accident.”

“Does the intention matter so much, when it is all said and done?” she asked.

“I made all the proper sacrifices, performed the rites exactly as you said!” Kirin raged. “And now my servant is dead! A waste of all that power!”

Trott looked hard at Kirin and Morrigan, suspicions forming in the back of his mind. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that she’d played both sides of this conflict to her own ends. He picked up the silver knife Will had dropped. The spell was gone from it, whatever it was that Kirin had bargained for. Even so, it was dangerous.

The witch queen stood tall as birds settled everywhere. Ravens and crows, starlings and grackles, doves and mockingbirds, vultures and songbirds. The wind died down, the clouds slowing. A deep rumble of thunder sounded and then a silence descended. It was an underwater sort of silence, blanketing the city.

Ross shuddered, holding Sips tightly. Beside him, Trott stood with knives in both his hands. Smith appeared on his other side, wearing a man’s shape again. He placed his hands on Ross’ shoulders reassuringly.

“Even if you intended to finish the ritual, he was our King,” Trott said, his voice dark and terrible. “It was ours, not yours, and his life belonged to us.”

“You cannot-” Kirin’s voice faded as the witch queen raised her hand.

“This city is out of balance,” Morrigan intoned, her voice heavy with a formal cadence. “What you tried to do was not wrong, but you only wanted the scales to tip the other way round. To be unbalanced in your favor. You broke a vow, and you know how we feel about that.”

There was a soft sussration, as the crowd shifted and murmured. The birds flapped and plucked at their feathers. Morrigan’s smile was cold and cruel as she looked at Kirin.

“It does not please us to think we have neglected our responsibilities here, that our garden is overgrown and in need of pruning. So we have decided to take an interest in the world again.” She clapped her hands, and a line of fire sprang up around the plaza. The witch light burned cold and white, pushing back the crowd.

“This however, you can decide between the two of you,” Morrigan said. “Only the two of you. Single combat. Winner takes all.” She laughed. A wind rose, stirring the length of the park.

Kirin’s face grew wan, almost sickly in the light. Trott stood still, his hands full of knives. He nodded once to Morrigan before drawing himself up to face Kirin.

“No!” Kirin snapped, a hint of anger in his voice now. “We had an agreement!” But his words failed to move Morrigan.

“You dare too much, too often,” Trott said. His voice carried on the wind. “I will take your life this time, for everything you’ve tried to steal.”

“How dare you?” Kirin thundered. The wind whipped past, full of the smell of rain and greenery. “You don’t belong here.”

“You weren’t born here either,” Trott laughed. “Go fuck yourself, old man.”

Kirin lifted his head, howling. The horns rose, crooked and heavy. His face was sharp and inhuman. The magic around him coalesced into a sword, the blade scored with runes. It was dull and almost black. When he roared, it sounded like the crack of an ancient tree falling.

Moving with a speed that dazzled even magical eyes, Trott did not make a sound. He dodged the heavy blows, darting around Kirin. His knives reflected the witch fire, gleaming as they slashed. They danced around each other, moving with feral grace. Trott hopped on the edge of the fountain to stay out of reach of the enormous two handed sword.

Sips stirred anxiously in Ross’ grip. Behind them, Smith stood watchfully. The fae milled anxiously around the plaza, watching in the light of the witch fire. They no longer scrapped with each other, instead waiting to see the outcome of this single fight, murmuring and crying out.

Kirin screamed as a knife struck his arm. Blood dripped on the concrete, the smell thick and wild. He swung, his blade whipping perilously close to Trott and forcing him back. A heavy blow caught Trott on the shoulder. He twisted away, dropping and ducking before Kirin could take off his head. Blood stained his shoulder, soaking his shirt.

Trott caught a glancing blow from the flat of Kirin’s blade, enough to make him stumble. He rolled, slipping away from Kirin’s grasp and came back to his feet on the edge of the circle. He spat on the stone and lifted his hands again.

“Is that all you have?” Trott laughed. He sang out a selkie curse, the sound of which made several water fae in the crowd jeer. The words were vicious, mocking.

Kirin screamed and charged forward again. Trott just stood there, waiting for him. Anxiously Ross whined deep in his throat. He felt Smith’s fingers grip harder, warning him not to try to intervene. Ross did not need to look at the witch queen to know she would not hesitate to destroy either of them if they tried to interfere.

The sword smashed down, heavy with the weight of centuries. It had cut body and soul many times before. Magic lit the marks on the blade, already hungry for more. At the last moment, Trott ducked forward inside Kirin’s arms. He sank both knives into Kirin’s chest. The force of the swing sank the sword several inches into the concrete plaza. Kirin staggered, trying to tug it free with one hand as he tried to fend off the blows Trott hammered into him. The knives flashed dark, drawing out the fae lord’s blood. Drops splashed and sizzled on the concrete. He screamed a final time, fighting to shove Trott away and block his blows.

Trott cut his throat so violently it nearly took off Kirin’s head. He staggered, hands rising halfway before he slumped and fell to the ground. The sword fell.

For a long moment, it felt as if the entire world had gone still and silent. The witch queen raised her hands, her long fingers adorned with rings.

“It is decided then. Kirin is no more a ruler, and no more in this world. Trott takes everything that was his.”

The birds screeched, a collective cacophony over the swelling voice of the crowd.

Trott stood over Kirin’s body, wiping the blood off his knives. He tucked them away before turning to yank Kirin’s sword from the ground. Bereft of his magic, it looked old and worn. Carefully, he balanced it across his hands and carried it to Morrigan. With a slow bow, he placed it at her feet.

“For you, my lady.” Trott bent his head. “And everything that goes with it, we would pass to you.”

Smith hissed and Ross glanced up at him unhappily. Neither of them could guess why Trott just ceded control of the city to the witch queen.

“We welcome this gift.” Morrigan smiled and stretched out a hand to rest her fingers on Trott’s hair. She curled her fingers round under his chin and lifted it so their eyes met. Trott felt the weight of her power, so much older and more powerful than Kirin. When she released him, he stepped away as quickly as proprietary would allow. He was exhausted and did not want to show it.

“The city’s courts are over,” she intoned. “To restore the balance all of the city is under the jurisdiction of the Court of Shadow.”

The birds circled the park and then cloud flew east, into the city center. They surrounded one of the metal and glass towers, whirling until it was changed into a dark spire. A single cold flame burned at the top, lighting the skyscraper’s glass crown. Murmurs ran through the park.

“Go now,” the witch queen said, her voice carrying over the trees. “You may choose to stay in the city, or you may leave. No one will stop you, and no bond holds you to what once was. The choice must be entirely yours. In three times three days, all that remain will swear their loyalties to the Shadow or be punished.” Morrigan vanished in the dark, carrying Kirin’s sword and the power of the city.

The crowd of fae swirled, many of them fleeing the park. The fae of Kirin’s court looked stunned. The death of a fae lord older than most of them had shaken everyone’s composure. Such a thing had not happened in long memory.

“What the hell?” Smith snarled as Trott returned to their side.

“Not now,” Trott said in a warning voice. He leaned forward, pulling Sips from Ross’ arms. “There are things we need to do, and fast.” He bent forward, conjuring a healing spell as he pressed his fingers to Sips’ ashen skin.

It was the approach of Honeydew that startled Ross out of his daze.

“It’s okay,” Ross called out. His voice caught. He waved to Jimmy, who tried to stop the dwarf from coming closer. The trolls of the garbage court were still there, ringing the fountain. Several of them were battered and bloody. One was missing an eye. Ross glimpsed the dead in the shuffling crowd, bodies crumpled in the grass.

Honeydew stepped around Jimmy, seemingly unperturbed. He looked older, streaks of white in his beard, and there was an unfathomable calm to his movements. Ross felt his face crumple, grief and shame and dread roiling within him. Honeydew stopped at the edge of the fountain and looked down. In the strange stormlight and the remains of the witch fire, long shadows covered Will’s body.

“Will’s dead.” Ross’ voice sounded unnatural in his ears.

“That is true.” Honeydew glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take him home with me all the same.”

Smith hissed something, and Trott shifted on his feet. He nodded tightly and turned back to Sips. Will’s death hardly mattered to them now. Ross felt a strange pang.

“Of course,” Ross said. Carefully, he stepped over the edge of the fountain. Will’s eyes were open, looking up with an expression of surprise. Blood soaked the front of his shirt, staining the blue and white fabric. The silver knife had fallen from his grasp. Ross avoided it as he gathered Will up in his arms. He could feel the spell inside him, burning. Setting his jaw, he tried not to acknowledge the pain as he stepped over the rim again.

“Will you need help, or…” Ross trailed off. He couldn't help but look around. There was no sign of Xephos. He wondered where the wizard might be. Did he know? Or would Honeydew bring the news to him, carrying Will’s body back to their house?

“I can take him from here.” Honeydew sighed as he took Will’s body into his arms, folding him like a sleeping child. “He was so young. Poor lad.”

“I…” Ross faltered. The last time he had tried to apologize, it had not gone well.

“I know,” Honeydew said quietly. “Whatever it is worth, I know this is not what you wished. He’ll understand too, eventually. But don’t expect that to happen for a century, at least.”

Ross gently touched the dwarf’s shoulder. It felt like more kindness than he deserved. He hadn’t done anything to stop Trott from taking Will’s life. He’d failed to keep Will from the seduction of the greenhouse. He watched as the crowd parted to let Honeydew pass, carrying Will’s body. Most of those remaining were loyal to the Garbage Court. Perhaps not anymore, now that the courts were dead. The city belonged to Morrigan and the witch queens. Ross could see a few friendly faces, watching them with anxiety and curiosity. He turned away and crouched beside the fountain. Sips sat against the rim, kicking one foot against the fountain in irritation and pain.

Trott ran his hand through his hair, biting his lip so hard it started to bleed.

“It’s not enough,” he whispered, half to himself. “I can’t- I can’t-”

“Trott,” Sips said softly. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Trott’s gaze was anguished.

“Save the king,” Ross said. He sat on the ground beside them. “The spell only lasts until it kills? So kill me and save the king.”

Trott looked at him, his brows drawn into a frown. He looked at the deep gash in Ross’ arm, the edges blackened from the knife’s passage.

“No,” Sips said firmly. He looked up at Smith, leaning against the fountain with one boot propped against the worn stone. Their eyes met in an understanding. Smith sighed, a little shiver running through him.

“Trott, you’re going to protect Ross from whatever this is.” Sips’ voice was decisive, his mind made up. There was no other option.

“But Sips-”

“Ross, you can’t sacrifice your soul for me.” Sips leaned forward to cup Ross’ face in his hands. He brushed back the hair around his horns. “It would be a sin to destroy something so fine on my account.”

Ross leaned into him, keening softly. His claws scratched at the concrete. Trott was still chewing on his lip, his gaze troubled.

“Trott’s gonna fix you up,” Sips continued. “You’ll be ready to raise hell in no time.”

“What are we gonna do for you?” Ross asked, anxiously.

“Smith’s gonna take me for a ride.” The way Sips said it so casually, it took a moment for the words to sink in. Ross’ eyes snapped to Smith. Trott sucked in a breath.

Smith just looked back, arms folded tight over his chest. He rocked on his heels, defiant and cold. A scattering of rain drops fell on him.

“No,” Trott shook his head. “No, we’re not doing it this way.”

“Trott, this is the only way to do it.”

“No, I just need more time-”

“Trott.” Sips sighed heavily. “We’ve all known this day would come, and I’d rather take it from Smiffy here than letting that old bastard win. Besides. Ross could never do it. You could. But pony boy here, he can make it nice and if I had to choose how I was going to go, that’s what I would pick.”

Ross doubled over and groaned.

“I’m not gonna do it if you’re calling me names,” Smith grumbled sourly.

“You’re gonna do what I tell you to do because I’m your King,” Sips shot back. But he grinned, the roguish light to his eyes softening the harshness of the command.

“He’s right,” Trott said after a moment. “He’s still the King.”

“No,” Ross mumbled. “I have to protect you. It should be me.”

“No, cupcake. You can’t fight this for me, not this time.”

Smith pushed off the wall and stomped in a little circle. He dropped to his knees, looking at Sips.

“We started this, we should finish it.” Smith caught Ross’ lashing tail, the glass shadowed with scorch marks. His green eyes glittered and focused on Trott. For a long moment, the three of them looked silently at each other.

Sips marveled at the way they spoke without words. Something passed between them, and he could see the slightest slump to Trott’s shoulders, resignation and understanding in the shadow covering his face. Sips forced himself to smile, even though Trott looked as grim as Sips had ever seen him. Ross made a sound, something terrible like glass cracking and grinding.

“There’s not much time,” Trott said slowly. “I can give you an hour, maybe two, without pain but then…” He left the rest unspoken.

“That’s fine.” Sips waved a hand. Blood seeped into his shirt. “But you can take care of Ross, right?”

“It only calls for one life.” Trott’s face was pale.

“Then it will be fine.” Sips looked relieved as he turned to Ross, hunched over beside him with his arms around his knees. He reached out, pulling Ross closer. Trott closed his eyes and put both hands on Sips’s chest. His lips moved, voice too low to be understood. The pale blue glow around his hands flared.

“Listen to me, Ross. This is how it has to be.” Sips stroked his clean hand over Ross’ head, ruffling his hair. He tried to savor the sensation, knowing it might be his last chance. He thought of all the time he’d put things off with a burning sensation of regret, wishing he’d taught Ross more recipes or walked with him more in the city or any number of things.

“No.” Ross shook his head. “I can save you.” The light burning in his eyes made Sips believe, just for a moment, in the church and the world he’d forsaken.

“You could. But I’m ordering you not to, as your king.” He said the words gently, but the power of them lingered. “Your king wants you to live, and to protect Trott and Smiffy, alright?”

Ross stilled, and looked at his companions. Trott’s hands dropped, the magic fading. He looked exhausted, his face lined with strain and looking older than Ross had ever seen him appear. Ross couldn’t believe this was happening. He prayed, harder than he’d prayed in centuries. _Please, no, please let me save him, please._ It hurt, deep inside him somewhere that might be a heart if he was made of flesh. Ross didn’t know what it was.

Sips hugged him, pressing his face against Ross’ cool marble skin. Ross’ tail curled around his waist. “Keep practicing your pierogies, alright? And take care of Trott when he works too much, and Smith too, yeah? They’ll need you.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Ross said mulishly.

“Nothing stays the same forever. I know you know that.”

Ross hugged Sips carefully. Sips stroked his tail, admiring at the way the glass flexed and moved. He’d seen a lot of weird shit in this city but it was stuff like this that made it all worthwhile. Reluctantly, he let go.

“Help me up, Trott.”

“Are you sure?” Trott whispered as they stood. Sips staggered just a little, grunting from the discomfort. His shirt clung to his skin. He hesitated to pull it away, not wanting a fresh flow of blood. The knife had gone deep, somewhere inside he didn’t like to think about. The pain of it was dulling from Trott’s magic.

“I could try something else, maybe I just need more time.” In Trott’s head, he heard Morrigan’s voice. The ritual called for a life, and the knife had already cut. Some things could not be unsaid or undone.

“You’ve done the important thing.” Sips looked at him, his face serious. He touched Trott’s cheek with one hand. “It’s okay.”

The lump in Trott’s throat kept him from speaking.

“We always think we have more time than we do, eh?” Sips half smiled.

“It’s too soon,” Trott whispered. There was so much he wanted to say, so much that felt impossible to say while his eyes were squeezed shut and his face pressed into Sips’ neck. He thought of their mornings, Sips smoking while they drank coffee in silence and stared out at dawn over the city. Trott realized he would miss Sips so much it might break his heart. He shuddered, a sob threatening to tear out of his throat.

“Hey,” Sips whispered. “It’s gonna be okay, Trott. Trust me.”

Trott swallowed again, tasting salt. Slowly and carefully, he straightened up and took Sips’ face in his hands. He kissed Sips on the forehead, on his eyes, and on his lips. It would not be enough. It wouldn’t be enough if he had another year to say goodbye.

“It’s been an honor to wreck centuries of tradition with you,” Trott murmured.

“You bet it has.” Sips grinned, his cheerful, cocky facade returning for a moment.

“Smiffy, you got a car around here?”

“Yeah.” Smith cleared his throat. His eyes were unsettlingly bright.

“Let’s get this show on the road, there’s shit I want to do.” Sips glanced curiously around the park. There were still fae, lingering on the grass or under the trees. They seemed lost. Beside the fountain, Ross rose to stand beside Trott. Sips waved and followed Smith towards the street.

 

* * *

 

The cold spatter of rain was only that. It stopped before they got to the edge of the park. Sips half expected to be jumped by someone or something, but most of the fae had fled. No one bothered them. He felt strangely invisible.

Smith opened the door of the Chrysler for him, and Sips resisted the urge to tease him for it.

“I was thinking we could go to that place up by the bridge,” Sips said as he slid into the passenger seat. Whatever spell Trott cast had taken away the pain of the stab wound but he still moved gingerly just in case. He knew the cut itself might not be fatal. It was that tricky magic bit, somewhere in his body now.

“That’s where kids go to make out,” Smith said as he climbed behind the wheel. His eyes flicked over as Sips messed with the radio. He didn’t snap at Sips to leave it alone like he usually did.

“Yeah, but it is a week night and the weather’s been weird. I bet we’ll have the place to ourselves.” Sips settled the dial on the classic rock station.

“Whatever you say.” Smith’s voice lacked the usual bite, the only sign he was perturbed by what they were doing. As they pulled away from the park, Sips spoke up again.

“You think we could stop somewhere for some beer?”

“What is this, a fucking date?” Smith’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Hey, a condemned man gets a final meal!”

Smith pulled into a gas station, tires screeching across the cracked pavement. “Fine. Go get it.”

“Smiffy, I’m covered in blood. I can’t go buy beer. Besides, I think I lost my wallet.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Smith sighed. He slammed the car door behind him.

“Hey, get some potato chips too!” Sips shouted out the window.

 

They drove in silence towards the bridge on the western side of the city. The overlook hill stood high over the water, providing a view of downtown, and the curve of the river as it flowed down towards the coast a few hundred miles away. It was completely empty, and Smith parked in the best spot. The city glittered, the lights of the new towers rising over the wide expanse of roads and buildings, the long lines of trees.

Sips munched a handful of potato chips and took a long swig of the beer. The engine ticked as it cooled. The storm had dissipated, a cool breeze sweeping the clouds into ragged strips. Stars glittered overhead. Absently, Smith cracked a beer. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look at Sips.

“Why are you making me do this?” Smith asked, finally unable to take the quiet.

“First off, I’m not making you do anything you wouldn’t do anyways,” Sips said with a harsh laugh.

“That’s not… that was years ago!”

“Still.” Sips shrugged. “Seriously, we both know Ross couldn’t do it. And Trott would never be able to let it go. Do you really want to spend the next fifty years hearing him talk about it?”

“So this is just a kindness then, how magnanimous of you, our gracious king.”

“Come on, Smiffy.” Sips swallowed another mouthful of beer. “You know it's gonna be awful no matter what.”

“You could just do it yourself,” Smith grumbled. He gestured towards the bridge with his bottle.

“The truth is I’m scared it will hurt,” Sips said in a quiet voice. “And I don’t know if I can bring myself to actually do it now… how many years has it been?”

Smith rubbed the steering wheel and thought about it. “Probably about ten, I think.”

Time passed differently for Sips. The magic from the ritual had taken him out of step from the rest of the world. He looked exactly the same as he had when Smith first picked him out of the crowd. Nothing had changed. No more grey than he started with, nothing different on the inside.

“Ten years,” Sips chuckled. He shook a cigarette out of the pack. “You never did tell them.”

“No.” Smith thought of that day, waking up with the ritual undone and finding their king of misrule still alive. The cold light outside on the little balcony where they smoked.

“Why not?” Sips asked.

“Why did they need to know?”

“Are you gonna tell Trott now, that you tricked him into thinking it was all his idea?”

Smith shrugged. “What’s the point? He wouldn’t believe me and it’s not like you’ll be able to back me up.”

Smith still couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when he’d decided. Like all his reckless decisions, it just seemed to spring fully formed out of his thoughts. Once it was there, it was as good as done in Smith’s mind. Sips had talked easily about his cancer diagnosis and the prospect of death. There was something in his eyes, the sardonic grin, the way he knew Smith was dangerous and didn’t seem to care. Smith fell in love during that quiet conversation while the others slept. It made it so easy to decide to make a deal with Sips, one that would keep him alive and close to Smith. So the ritual had never been finished and the court had a king and the city turned on its head.

It wasn’t the first time Smith turned the world upside down for love.

Smith reached over and plucked the cigarette from Sips’ fingers, inhaling the bitter smoke. Sips smiled at him, brushing away chip crumbs from his shirt. He took the cigarette back and smoked it down to the filter.

With a sigh, Smith rolled his head back and forth. He was still sore from fighting earlier, and his wild scrap with Kirin. The radio played low, the sound of guitars sweet and wild.

“I know this is a hell of a thing to ask you to do,” Sips said as the song finished.

“It’s not, not really.” Smith slid across the bench seat to lean against Sips. “It’s what I do best, isn’t it?”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Sips tangled his bloodstained fingers in Smith’s hair, tugging slightly.

“Course you are,” Smith snorted. He nosed against Sips’ neck, kissing and biting.

“I’m the best fuck you’ve ever had.”

“Are you?” Sips breathed out, exhaling when Smith’s teeth broke the skin.

“Trust me.” Smith’s eyes were bright green, a shining summer time color in the gloom. The air was changing in the car, getting heavier. He didn’t try to fight it, any more than he did when Smith’s fingers worked open his belt. Warm fingers teased his skin. The sweetness of his charm soothed Sips’ aches, made him feel light and young.

“Smiffy…” He could feel the magic, the way things slowed down and the air seemed to thicken around them. Sips imagined it like it was a movie, the slow motion and the swell of music.

“What?”

“Thank you.” Sips watched the color shift in Smith’s eyes, and then he wasn’t paying attention to anything else as Smith kissed him down into darkness.

 

* * *

 

Trott and Ross sat together on the living room floor. Trott had guided them home, his hand on Ross’ arm the entire way. The witches had given them a lift, a silent young man with a bloody scrape on his chin driving a van. Trott knew he’d said something to Zoey, something that made her go pale, but he didn’t remember what. He chewed on a piece of ice, not watching the flickering television as his thoughts ran into each other.

Ross gasped, and Trott lifted his head in alarm.

“The pain’s gone.” Ross spoke the first words since they’d watched Sips walk away with Smith. He’d silently and stoically followed Trott out of the park, endured Trott’s puzzled examination of his injuries and sat unmoving in their home.

“It’s over,” Trott sighed. He half turned, one hand reaching for Ross. The glass of Ross’ body, once perfectly clear, was now marked with swirls inside. It looked like smoke. Trott rubbed his hand against Ross’ tail. Even now, knowing the spell’s conclusion was done, the marks didn’t dissipate. They hadn’t changed despite the healing magic Trott had poured into his body.

“It doesn’t hurt?” In all the years Trott had known Ross, decades now, he’d never seen anything that the gargoyle’s body couldn’t heal. The wound on his arm was still ragged, though Trott imagined it looked a little less terrible.

“No.” Ross shook his head.

“Scars,” Trott finally said. “I didn’t think there was magic that could scar you, at least not anything a human could do.”

“Well, it wasn’t just him was it?”

“I guess not.” Morrigan’s magic. An order of magnitude more powerful, it seemed. Trott felt a curl of bitterness in his stomach, knowing he’d been played. He’d been suckered by Morrigan’s mention of his mother, his desire to win, his desire to be seen as powerful.

Ross stared down at his arm, his face expressionless. Slowly, Trott curled up against him. They waited for Smith to come back to their house of grief.

 

* * *

 

Trott did not sleep. He made phone calls and arrangements, calling in old favors even though technically they were worthless now. But most people answered his calls. Even those who hadn’t been in the park had heard by now. In the afternoon, a crew had hauled wood taken from a construction site up the stairs of the building to the roof where preparations were well underway.

The storms had blown through. A cool front dropped the temperatures to something more bearable, softening the sky. A breeze blew steadily, scattered leaves and flower petals and trash along the streets.

The witches all came, and Trott tried not to think uncharitably of them for it. He wanted to make a snide remark about death being the province of women but he knew it would do no good to be an asshole right now. Besides, there were too many who trod the boundary of gender in ways that were both very old and very new. Trott hated their sympathetic looks, and threw himself into a frenzy of arrangements. He stalked around the apartment, dodging people as he talked on his phone. He left messages for a broker and a real estate agent he used whenever he had to do the sort of business that touched human boundaries.

In their bedroom, Ross carefully picked out Sips’ favorite pair of jeans and one of his neon printed bowling shirts. His name was embroidered in script above his heart. Smith watched, brooding as Ross dressed Sips one final time.

“What?” Ross finally sighed. They were alone. The shut door kept out the members of the Court coming and going in the apartment.

“I killed him,” Smith said in a flat voice.

“The spell killed him,” Ross said, looking back down at Sips’ body on their bed. “You just helped him end it on his terms.” Ross had sat up with Sips when Smith brought him home. There was no one to say the prayers of the church they shared, no priest Ross could call. So he said them himself, sitting beside Sips’ body. The cadences of the prayers for the dead soothed him, words he had not heard in so long. He’d carefully washed his body, even though Smith’s water had rinsed away much of the blood. Then Ross laid him out and kept a vigil over him, thinking about how they would have a funeral.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“Should I be?” Ross asked, his voice mildly surprised.

“It was my fault they got him,” Smith spat out, his voice angry and low.

“I don’t blame you. Neither does Trott, or you’d know it.”

“I blame me.” Smith moodily kicked his heels against the dresser where he perched.

Ross carefully brushed his hand over Sips’ head and settled the baseball cap on his head. The brim was worn, frayed. The gold crown glimmered despite the few loose threads. In the pocket of his shirt, Ross tucked a pack of cigarettes and some of the prayer cards from Sips’ box in the closet. Ross added a couple silver coins just in case. He didn’t know what gods would welcome Sips’ soul but he wanted him to be prepared for anything.

“It should have been me,” Ross said after a moment. “I tried to stop it, but the knife just slid across me and into him.” He stretched out his right arm. A silvery line cut across his forearm. It looked more like a burn than a cut. Ross’ ability to heal himself hadn’t been able to erase the mark, not even with the help of Trott’s magic. When Smith didn’t say anything, Ross kept speaking.

“Trott blames himself, too. That he should have been strong enough to reverse the spell, to stop it, to do something because the ritual was interrupted. That he should have done something sooner.”

“At least he got to kill them both,” Smith said savagely. He kicked a hole in the dresser, unable to soothe the emotions in his chest.

“I guess so.” Ross straightened the collar of Sip’s shirt. Across the city, perhaps Xephos was doing the same thing for Will. He felt so sad. “Do you think it should be his bowling shoes? Or his sneakers?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” Ross said, his temper flaring for the first time. His tail slapped at the floor and it hurt. He felt strangely fragile after everything. It wasn’t the first time he’d lost a human he cared about. This felt so different though. Everything felt different and it frightened Ross no small amount. He was unmoored, unsure of what might happen to them now. He wanted to hold Smith and Trott close, to make certain they would not vanish and leave him alone in his grief.

“The sneakers,” Smith said after a moment of silence. “He’d want to be comfortable. He didn’t want it to hurt, in the end.”

Ross got up and found a pair of Sips’ sneakers in the closet. They were scuffed and worn at the soles.

“Was he scared?” he finally asked as he put the shoes on Sips’ cold feet. The question came reluctantly to his lips. Part of him immediately regretted asking.

“No,” Smith answered. His voice was softer. “He wasn’t afraid.”

“That’s good.” Ross wrapped his arms around Smith tightly. He felt Smith squirm, restless and emotional. “You smell like gasoline.”

“I torched the car.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Smith stopped. “Just because, alright?”

“Alright.” Ross put his hand on the back of Smith’s head and they just stood there for a long moment. He began to hum softly, a hymn he hadn’t thought of in ages.

 

* * *

 

At sunset on the solstice, Ross carried Sips’ body up the emergency stairs to the roof. He was naked, cold and polished stone that had lost some of the humanity he’d taken over the years. His clawed feet scored the concrete. Trott led the procession, dressed in a white button down shirt and black pants. His skin was draped like a shawl around his shoulders. Smith followed behind, the chains on his boots jingling with every step. It had taken all manner of threats from Trott and gentle insistence from Ross to coax him along.

When Trott pushed open the door, the sound of music greeted them. Beside the stairwell someone had set up folding tables and crates to hold decks and speakers with extension cords running everywhere. The Garbage Court’s number one party DJ switched effortlessly into something more solemn. Yolandi was dressed entirely in white, her skin painted to match and covered with sigils. Black contacts rendered her eyes into voids in her face. She twisted the dials, and the soft synth beat swelled as they passed. It raised the hair on Trott’s neck and he could feel the power in it.

The roof was crowded. The bowling team seemed unfazed to learn one of their members was having a funeral on a rooftop or that so many of the guests were peculiar. The trolls were there, stoic with sad eyes and all carrying baseball bats. Nathan worse a black suit, and the pixies were all wearing gauzy black veils and little hats. The witches were there, laying flowers and herbs in the pyre and around it.

“I hope it’s alright,” Kayla said quietly when Trott paused at the semi circle around the pyre. Kayla from the thrift store near Dirty Deeds had organized the pyre, recruiting a group to carry cinder blocks and steel grates up to build a base for the wood. Her dark red hair was pulled back with a bandana, sweat sticking tendrils to her skin. A sunburn bloomed on her pale skin. She wore an old black dress patterned with roses that fluttered around her knees in the breeze, and a pair of bright yellow sneakers.

“It’s just what we needed.” Trott summoned up some reserve of graciousness and touched her shoulder. A whisper thread of magic flowed between them and within moments the sunburn was fading away from her skin. He stepped away, unable to bear any gratitude for the gesture.

Across the roof, voices fell quiet. The sounds of the city came to them faintly, the noise of traffic and the ever present hum of human life. Vivid red and orange and pink streaked the western sky, clouds gilded with the last light from the sun as it faded inexorably into purple, blue and black. With immense care and tenderness, Ross settled Sips’ shrouded body atop the platform. They didn’t own white sheets, so he was wrapped in one with a faded blue and white paisley pattern. Someone handed Ross an armful of flowers, rosemary and branches of cedar, and he spread them across Sips.

Behind him, Smith stood watching with a bleak expression. He’d not wanted to witness this. He understood, but Trott needed Smith somewhere he could see him and not potentially picking a lethal fight in a city without masters. For all that the city was technically no longer at war, it was dangerous.

Stars were appearing, the sky swept clear by the northern wind. They glittered, faint and far. Trott wondered what he could possibly say.

“We all knew Sips, and we all knew he’d love being the center of attention,” Trott began. Someone chuckled in the crowd of mourners. “He was one of the strangest and most interesting humans I’ve ever met. I doubt I’ll ever meet another like him.”

“He could be a good friend, a team mate, and the most unlikely king of our little court.” Trott paused, swallowing. “He had an almost unnatural ability to see right through the bullshit and speak the truth. He could also lie like a fisherman on a three day bender.” Some of the crowd chuckled, especially the bowlers. One of the women wiped her eyes and someone offered her a flask.

“None of us wanted this.” Trott paused, letting his eyes unfocus. “But here we are. I’ll spare telling you that he’s in a better place because death is just as chancy as living. He lived well, he made his choices and he was never afraid to own the consequences. We’ll miss him, the old bastard.”

Smith closed his eyes. He held a bottle of whiskey in one hand. Ross picked up a bouquet of carnations and daisies, pulling them apart and handing some of them to Trott.

“The King is dead,” Trott said at last, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “We will have no more again.” He lit kerosene soaked flowers with one of Sips’ plastic lighters. Flames sprang up wildly in his hand. On the other side of the pyre, Ross did the same. They stepped forward, pushing the burning flowers into the sides of the mound of wood chips and flowers. It caught in a flash, little flames racing up and down the length of the cedar. They grew taller and brighter with the breeze. In the light of the growing fire, Trott lifted a corner of his skin to drape over his head. It shadowed his face, leaving only the glow of his eyes.

The music rose, a loud and insistent swell of voiceless grief. At the edge of the circle, Smith hopped up onto the pyre. Wood creaked beneath him. Flames licked at his boots. Smith ripped the cap from the bottle and drank deeply before pouring a good bit of it over Sips’ body. Then he stepped nimbly off before the flames could do more than blacken his heels. He stalked through the crowd and no one stopped him.

Ross watched and made as if to follow. Trott stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Let him do whatever it is he needs to do,” Trott whispered.

Yolandi turned up the music, and the crowd began to murmur instead of whisper. Gradually the volume rose. The fire burned, aided by accelerants and witchcraft. The heat rose and the mourners clustered round the makeshift bar sucking down cold beer and wine. The breeze carried smoke over the city.

Ross breathed deeply, and all he could smell were flowers and cigarettes. Zoey nodded at him from the place where she watched the flames. He wondered if they’d done something to cover the smell of burning flesh. He hoped Sips didn’t mind. He didn’t think Sips would have wanted a full funeral Mass but a pyre on a roof was pretty pagan all the same. He’d probably laugh, Ross decided. The thought was bittersweet. When Ross finally tore his eyes away from the steadily burning flames, Trott was no longer at his side.

 

* * *

 

Smith snapped at anyone who came too close. Soon enough there was a bubble around him, a ring of space on the crowded roof that gave him some privacy.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to howl and smash things, to vent his rage and grief into the sky with blood. Instead he drank to numb himself. The memory of Sips gasping under his hand, the taste of Sips in his throat and the rising water kept creeping back into his throat.

Smith had never felt so fucking sad about a kill. He hated it. More than that he hated that he couldn’t seem to escape or repress his feelings. Sips had wanted it, had come to him willingly, had asked for it. And Smith had done it, thinking it would be fine.

It wasn’t fine, and he hated himself for it.

Trott appeared out of the darkness at his side. His face was drawn, lines at the corners of his eyes.

“What the fuck do you want?” Smith muttered.

Trott just stared at him.

“Go ahead,” Smith said. He stretched his arms wide, whiskey sloshing in the bottle he held. “Say it.”

“What should I say?” Trott’s voice was flat and full of pain, a warning Smith blew right past.

“What a fucking monster I am.” Smith took another drink.

Trott shook his head.

“I fucking hate that both of you are so noble about this.”

“Do you know what I can’t forgive?” Trott asked. His voice was low and Smith had to lean closer to hear.

“What’s that?”

“He asked for you.” Trott’s voice shook. “In the end, it was always you. It’s fucking stupid, to be jealous of it but I am. You were his favorite. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t give him a good death.”

Smith blinked. He stared at Trott, his green gaze shifting colors.

“You fucking idiot,” he finally said. Trott raised red rimmed eyes to him, a flicker of anger in their depths.

“You fucking idiot,” Smith repeated. “He didn’t want _you_ to have to live with it. He figured I’m such a heartless killer that it wouldn’t hurt me to do it. He didn’t want- fuck, you selfish prick. He cared about you so much, he didn’t want to hurt you.”

Smith broke off, and took another drink. The whiskey seared his tongue, cutting off the bitter words.

Trott looked at him, puzzling over Smith. He reached out and Smith pushed his hand away irritably.

“Not now, Trott. I can’t carry your feelings on top of mine. Not tonight.”

 

* * *

 

“Trott.” Ross stood on the edge of the stairwell roof, watching the dawn break. It was the highest point of the building and he’d been there for hours. Trott sat beside him, his skin still covering his head. Most of the crowd had left except for some of the witches and a few of the fae. Smith was sitting in a folding chair, watching the smoke of the pyre rise in the still air. His back was to them, and Ross could not tell if he was awake or sleeping. Yolandi was smoking beneath them, staring up at the sky behind her makeshift DJ booth. The music was low, as steady as a heartbeat.

“Yes, sunshine?” Trott blinked wearily as he looked up.

“Will you… will you and Smith…” He paused, swallowing the words. “How long? How long do we have?”

“Hopefully that won’t happen anytime soon,” Trott answered after a moment. “Selkies and kelpies live a long time.”

“What about me?” He’d contemplated his own mortality before, in the long years he spent in the church. The priests had never given him a clear answer. He’d not thought about it too closely for some time.

The question made Trott pause.

“I honestly don’t know, Ross. I’ve never met a gargoyle like you, made and brought to life.” Trott rose slowly, resting a hand on Ross as he did. His joints ached and he felt stiff from sitting so long. He pushed back his skin, letting it settle around his neck. The breeze was cool in his sweat dampened hair.

“But I can die,” Ross said in a quiet voice. “Otherwise the spell from the sacrifice wouldn’t have affected me, would it?”

“I suppose that might be.” Trott didn’t know enough to say for certain. “But I don’t think you need to be afraid, Ross. You’ve lived a long time. I imagine you’ll outlive all of us.”

“I don’t want to go on without you and Smith. Losing Sips is bad enough.” Ross shuddered, his tail swinging. “I haven’t felt this way in a long time, and I don’t like it.”

“I know.” Trott put his cheek against Ross’ cool skin. “Don’t fret. We’re not going anywhere.” It was as true as Trott could will it to be.

The night was over. Sunlight colored the clouds in shades of red and gold, brilliant against the blue overhead. It hurt Trott’s eyes to watch it and his gaze drifted to the pyre. It was mostly ash, blackened pieces of wood and bone. His heart seized for a moment, and he wanted to scream. He closed his eyes.

At the edge, Smith watched. This ritual meant nothing to him. Everything important had already happened. The dull burn of alcohol filled his head, numbing him. He was tired and ready for it to be over.

Olivia and Zoey stepped out of the semi circle of the court members still on the roof with them. Zoey was wrapped in a long lace shawl, her multicolored broomstick skirt swirling around her. Beside her, Olivia wore black jeans and a tattered black shirt. Her steel tipped cowboy boots jingled with chains. Zoey held the jewel box, and Olivia carefully opened it up. Their voices rose up, Zoey’s high and Olivia’s raspy, words that didn’t make any sense to Smith. They knelt on the warm concrete. A little magical whirlwind sprang up, stirring the ashes. Zoey made a gentle sweeping motion with her hands, shaping the wind like a broom to gather the ashes. They funneled into the box in a dark stream. When it was over, Olivia gently closed the catch. The others bowed their heads and there was a long moment of silence. Zoey lifted the little box up, and the light reflected prisms of color across the roof. Behind her, Olivia wiped tears from her face. They left streaks, ash dusting her face.

 

Smith turned away, staring into the sun. His eyes burned and watered. He didn’t hear whatever Zoey murmured to Trott and Ross. When her hand fell on his shoulder, Smith twitched. He want to slap it away but he was tired and hollow feeling.

“What?” Smith snapped when she didn’t speak.

“Trott told me.” Zoey’s colorful shawl was trimmed with tiny charms, turning her into a walking wind chime.

“And what?”

“It’s not an easy thing, to be asked to grant that kind of mercy,” she said slowly. “It takes a great deal of love and strength to do it.”

Smith slowly rolled his head to look at her. Zoey’s long hair was tied back in a messy knot, and a streak of grey smudged her forehead. Unlike almost everyone else on the roof she didn’t look exhausted and worn out. Her eyes glittered with their usual sparkle.

“What would you know about that?” he asked, his voice rough.

“You’re not the only person who ever had to help someone they loved to die.”

“Right,” Smith sighed. He waited and Zoey continued staring at him, something puzzled in her expression. “What? What is it?”

“You didn’t use the ritual that ends Misrule,” she said, her voice turning it into a question.

“I didn’t.” He winced, wondering if he needed to tell Trott about that. Trott would probably be pissed, yell at him about being careless. It didn’t matter, Smith decided.

“Did anything strange happen? At the end?”

“No,” Smith said with a shake of his head. “I didn’t… no. Nothing weird.”

“Huh.” Zoey was still looking at him.

“What, Zoey? Why are you staring at me like I’ve grown another head?”

Zoey leaned in close, peering into his face. She cracked a smile.

“Nothing.” She wrapped her arms around Smith to give him a hug, an experience he found slightly disconcerting. “You’ll be alright, Smith, I know you will.”

He watched her pick her way across the roof, gathering up the remaining witches, and wondered what the hell that was all about.

 

* * *

 

Trott slept for the first time in two days. When he woke up, it was late in the afternoon. Sunlight slanted between the blinds. The apartment was quiet. Smith sprawled on the other side of the bed, and Ross curled beside him like a boulder.

Carefully, Trott slid out of bed. The deep quiet was melancholy. On the bedside table, the jeweled crown they’d stolen for Sips sat crookedly on the alarm clock. He wondered what they were going to do with that now. Looking around the bedroom, Trott could almost believe Sips had just woken up before them and stepped out. His things were still about-- his clothes scattered, his shoes haphazardly strewn, his toothbrush still beside the sink.

Trott’s eyes felt sandy. Instead of making coffee, which would only make him think about quiet mornings with just him and Sips, he grabbed a can of soda out of the fridge. It was sickly sweet, fizzing against his teeth. He swallowed and hoped it was enough to wake him up. He stood there, staring blindly out the window. His grief was tangled up in knots. He knew he would need to make some kind of amends to Smith, that a reckoning was due. Trott just didn’t know what. It felt terrible to be so lost, so uncertain about what the next move should be.

There was a creak, and for a breath Trott expected Sips to lumber into the kitchen yawning and grunting. He even looked over his shoulder before reality caught back up to him. The kitchen was empty.

In the office bedroom, Trott turned on his laptop. There were a lot of things he needed to do, and not much time to do them. Trott had no intention of staying here and living under Morrigan’s rule. Selling the shop, selling the Garbage Court’s business interests, would give them some room to make decisions. There were already people interested in the property.

His email was jammed with unread messages. Trott could only see one though. The one from Sips, sent this morning.

 

_Trott -_

_If you’re reading this then I’m dead. I hope you already knew that and this isn’t a nasty surprise. One of my bowling buddies showed me this email service that you can set up to hold messages that automatically deliver if you don’t enter the passcode. I figured it would be handy, someday but hopefully not a someday any time soon._

 

Leaning back, Trott took a deep breath. He swallowed a gulp of soda before resuming.

 

_I don’t really know what’s on the other side of this. Something, I guess. I feel more certain about that now than I used to. All the things I’ve seen since I met you, I’m betting there’s something more than a void. The world is a weird place. I used to think I knew what’s what but all this, all of you, showed me how wrong I was. It is so much stranger._

_We always knew I’d go long before you or anyone else. And to be honest, I’ve always been stupid about danger. I’d been running from the things I did for a long time. I made a lot of bad choices and I hurt people I love. I was starting to wonder what the point of being alive was, always on my own. You can keep running and running but sooner or later it catches up with you. I know this thing we have changes the rules but I’m not so vain to think I won’t have to pay for eventually._

_Anyways, don’t think I’ve ever regretted or been sad about this life or this thing we have going. I would do it all again. Our time has been some of the best I’ve ever had. We may not be good people but we’re here together. You gave me time I never would have had otherwise and I’m grateful for that._

_I know you’ll be okay without me. You’re survivors. The three of you just work even if it doesn’t make any sense. I’m lucky I got to see it up close and personal. Really personal if you think about how much time I’ve spent around your dicks. Worth risking some eternal damnation for, if I’m honest._

 

Trott choked on a laugh that threatened to turn into a sob.

 

_Whatever happened, Trott, it had to happen. I know you and I know you’re brooding. Let it go, sweetheart. Don’t spend all your time obsessing over what you think you could have done to change it. I mean it. Don’t make me show up making spooky ass ghost sounds in the toilet while you sulk in the bath. I’m gonna be pissed if that’s what I’m doing after I’m dead._

_Tell Ross he’s a good boy and that I love him. Tell Smith too, even though he’ll roll his eyes. Tell them not to get caught up in trying avenge me or anything stupid like that - I want to go out knowing you all survive._

_Get out of town, take a drive somewhere. There’s more than just this fucking city, you know. I don’t know why you’d stay here when you could go anywhere in the world. Stick together and go drink a beer for me._

_Love,_

_Sips_

 

Trott saved the email and closed his laptop. He stared into space, tasting the salt of his tears.

 

* * *

 

When Ross and Smith stumbled out of the bedroom in the early evening, Trott was sitting with his laptop in the battered recliner in the living room. On the table beside him, Sips’ seldom worn crown glittered. It rested on a folded towel. The television flickered with the sound turned off.

“What are we going to do with this piece of junk?” Smith picked up the crown, tossing it from hand to hand.

“It’s not junk,” Trott sighed. “It’s a ticket.”

“A ticket for what?”

“Out of this town,” Trott said. “Ross, have you ever thought about looking for other gargoyles?”

“Sometimes,” Ross admitted, caught off guard by the question. He couldn’t imagine what it had to do with anything. None of the other churches in the city ever had gargoyles.

Smith held the crown in one hand, staring down at Trott. His eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean, a ticket?” he asked.

“Exactly what I said.” Trott folded his hands on the laptop. “Without a king, we don’t need a crown. What we need now is coin to ease our passage out of here as soon as possible.”

“Are you serious?” Smith growled, his voice rising. “You want to just leave? After all of this?”

“Yes.” Trott looked pale, little lines at the corners of his mouth and his eyes. “That is exactly what I want.”

“Kirin’s dead!” Smith spat. “You killed him! We won!”

“Did we win?” Ross interrupted, bitterness filling his words.

Smith sputtered and swore. Ross watched him, his tail swishing back and forth along the carpet.

“We could have taken control of the entire city, and you just handed it away...”

“It was the smartest thing to do!” snapped Trott.

“How was it smart, Trott, giving up that power?”

“Do you really think we could have gone toe to toe with her?” Trott asked, pushing his laptop to the floor and rising to his feet. “What kind of idiot do you think I am?”

“Not the kind of idiot who just gives up and runs!” Smith flung the crown away. It bounced and rolled across the living room carpet. Little rainbows flashed along the wall, the light catching the stones.

“She set us up!” This time Trott’s voice rose in rage. “This whole thing, she played both sides! She was never going to let anyone else have the city and you’re a fool to believe otherwise!”

They stared angrily at each other. Smith broke first, turning away muttering curses under his breath. Ross gathered the crown from the floor and returned it to the table.

“That knife, and the spell, came from her,” Trott continued. “She was never going to let things stand. Those drow? Where would Kirin find drow? They were hers as well.”

“Why?” Ross asked, when the moment dragged too long. Smith rocked on his heels, arms folded. He was still muttering under his breath.

“Because no one gives up power willingly.” Trott shook his head. “From the moment she set foot in the city, she was only concerned with herself.”

Smith kicked the sofa, hard enough to crack something. Ross gave him a mournful look. Trott’s shoulders slumped. His anger was gone, replaced by weariness.

“I got an email from Sips today,” Trott said.

“What?” Ross and Smith said simultaneously.

“He set it up before he died.” Trott picked his laptop up and opened it. “Like a message in a bottle. In case something happened to him. Turns out he was more prepared than all the rest of us.”

“What did he say?” Ross asked, his voice strangely hopeful. He didn’t know what he hoped for, or what he expected.

Trott read the message aloud. As he spoke, his voice low, Smith sank down onto the arm of the battered couch. Ross crouched at his feet. The last of the twilight faded, and they sat in the gloomy apartment. The television light flickered, an unnatural fire that gave no warmth or comfort.

 

* * *

 

They had taken their remembrances, each of them. Smith carried the engraved lighter in his pocket. Trott had taken Sips’ bowling bag and the jewel box of Sips’ ashes went in there.

Ross sat on the floor of the closet, carefully sorting Sips’ clothes and belongings. He had a cardboard box in the top of the closet full of little things like prayer cards, cufflinks, an old empty wallet. There was a rosary beneath a stack of ID cards, the garnet beads worn smooth and the golden links softly glimmering. Ross put it over his head, feeling a strange sense of comfort and familiarity when it rested next to his skin. In the end, he kept Sips’ entire box of odds and ends, unwilling to let them go.

Smith was out with Trott, handling the sale of Dirty Deeds and all its contents. Ross was alone in the apartment. It felt empty, even though they hadn’t yet abandoned it. As if all the life had gone with Sips. There were so many things. Ross didn’t know what to do with all the things. He couldn’t imagine them packing them all up and taking them wherever they planned to go. He felt paralyzed.

A sharp knock brought Ross out of his daze. Olivia leaned on the door, dressed in her summer goth best. A crepey black dress hung loosely on her lanky frame, and her tights were patterned with roses. A wide brimmed black straw hat shaded her face from the sun. Her makeup was impeccable, all sharp lines and winged eyeliner making her grey eyes look bigger and brighter. Tucked in the top of one boot was a knife, and there was a taser in her bag.

“I came to see if you needed anything,” Olivia said as she followed Ross into the living room. She glanced around at the mess. It wasn’t much different from the usual but there was a change in the air. Without Sips’ presence the apartment lacked a vibrance. Ross hadn’t cooked in days, and they hadn’t really eaten that much. There were empty bottles, but the pizza box sitting on the coffee table was from before Sips died.

“I’m just trying to figure out what to do with all the things.” Ross spread his hands. “How did we end up with so much stuff?”

“So it’s true, you’re leaving.” Olivia did not look surprised.

“Yeah.” Ross wondered what news was passing in the city. He hadn’t left the apartment except to accompany Trott on an errand or two. He opened the fridge, more barren than usual. “Want a soda?”

“Sure.” She took a long swallow of the soda before reaching into her bag for a small bottle of vodka. They toasted silently, passing the bottle back and forth.

“I don’t know what I’ll do when you all are gone,” Olivia said at last. She took off her hat and tugged on her loose braid of dark brown hair. There was a new tattoo on her shoulder, a gold crown with red, green and blue gems. It gleamed, the skin around it still pink and swollen.

“I doubt the new management is going to need night club security.” She grimaced. “I don’t even know how I feel about the new management right now.”

“Hard to say, one way or another.” Ross sighed. He scratched at a coffee stain no one had bothered to wipe away.

“How are you doing, boss?” Olivia leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. Her eyes flicked to his face and back down at the can in her hands.

“Strange,” Ross replied quietly. “I keep expecting him to come through the door.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I miss him too.” She rubbed her arm. There were few people Ross would trust Sips’ life to and Olivia had never let him down. For the years Sips had ruled their court, an accidental king with a stolen crown, Olivia had defended his life. More than once she killed for him. At their parties and in the clubs, Olivia made it seem like she was hanging around Sips because she was drawn by his power and magnetism. It never would have worked so well if she hadn’t genuinely gotten along with Sips.

“Can you help me for a bit?” Ross asked, a plaintive note in his voice. “I’m trying to figure out what to do with all his clothes and things and it just…”

“Of course,” Olivia said. “Show me what you need.”

Olivia helped him divide things into piles, hauled out garbage bags to sort the clothes into things that could be safely given to a thrift store and things that should be burned or thrown out. It was an easier task with someone else to look at things with him, someone who kept him from getting lost in his memories. Ross knew that there was nothing to do with a pair of ancient, faded underwear but actually putting it in a garbage bag was beyond him. Olivia helped him make a small pile of things they would take to the roof to burn, including the clothes Sips was wearing when he died. The bloodstains did not make her pause.

Ross pressed an armful of Sips’ nice shirts on her, the dark floral Hawaiian shirts and one of his black bowling league shirts. Olivia teared up again and wrapped her arms around him. Ross held her for a few moments as she struggled to maintain her composure. Before she left to haul away the thrift store bag, Ross tucked one of Sips’ silver and black rosaries in her pocket.

“Be safe,” he said in a low voice, one hand on Olivia’s shoulder with the tattoo. A golden hum rang in his ears, that magic he subconsciously worked flowing into her. Ross could see it faintly. The nimbus of protection shimmered around her for a moment and sank into her skin. Whatever she decided to do, she would have some protection.

“You too, boss.” Olivia rose on her toes, and brushed his cheek with a kiss. Then she was gone.

 

* * *

 

The tower had changed since Trott’s first visit. The lights were on, the lobby construction largely finished. The atrium extended to a ceiling five floors up patterned in sun and moon motifs, painted a delicate sky blue. The marble floor was gleaming. The elevators were working but something about their gleaming cages made him uneasy. As he crossed the busy floor, full of humans and fae hurrying in all directions, Trott resolved to take the stairs. He slipped easily through the crowd, dressed as a businessman in a dark grey suit and blue shirt. His polished shoes gleamed.

Electric lights cast a cool glow in the stairwell. Every landing had a plant in a large pot. The walls were painted in various shades of shimmering grey and blue, and the concrete steps were polished. At the top instead of an empty stairwell and the offering box, there was a large door and a pair of guards. The drow stared impassively as Trott entered. He found their old fashioned appearance and swords disconcerting. It made him wonder if he’d made a tactical error, dressing himself in a modern suit.

The top floor was changed as well. It was finished now, a large gleaming expanse with a smooth floor of polished wood. The alcoves around the room held small settees and potted trees. In one alcove, a quartet of musicians played softly.  Skylights illuminated the space, and crystal glass filled the four enormous windows. In the center, Morrigan’s seat remained on a circular dais. The courtiers here drew back, whispering as he passed them. The sidhe had already moved in, ready to serve.

Morrigan watched Trott’s approach. A faint smile crossed her face and she rose from her seat, waving away the anxious sidhe trying to speak with her. She wore a long dress of black and white brocade, iridescent feathers covering her shoulders in a gleaming mantle. A crown of silver spikes glimmered with moonstones and garnets.

“How pleasant to see you again, prince of the sea.”

Trott bowed deeply before her. “My lady.”

“I knew we could not expect you sooner.” She smiled sweetly. “You have been busy.”

“Many things required endings.”

“Of course,” she agreed.

Trott realized she knew already. She’d probably always known what his choice would be. His stomach knotted.

“If you have a moment, we should wrap up our own unfinished business,” he said carefully.

“Certainly.” This time Morrigan laid her hand on his forearm. Her long nails were tipped in silver. Trott let himself be guided towards the eastern window. The fae in the room melted back, giving them the illusion of privacy even as they strained to overhear their conversation. Cold eyes watched them.

“I have something I should return to you.” Trott lifted the chain from his neck to slide free the garnet ring. “You honored your pledge of support and I am grateful for it.”

Morrigan accepted the ring, letting it roll in her hand. She returned it to her finger casually.

“Since you return my token, should I take it that you will not remain here?” She lifted her gaze to look out at the city. The late afternoon light cast long shadows across the buildings below them. The tower felt taller than it should be.

“We will leave,” Trott replied. “Better to give the city a new start, I think. No one that could rally the forces of discontent.”

“Hmmm.” Morrigan’s face betrayed none of her thoughts. Her dark eyes moved from the view to Trott. It took a great deal of self control to be steady under that searching gaze.

“We do wish to offer you this gift, in thanks for all that you’ve done to restore the balance.” Trott could not restrain the tiny sliver of bitterness in his voice, and kept his eyes down to avoid Morrigan’s.

From his pocket, he pulled forth a small wooden box. Over the past two days a crafter in the city had worked feverishly at taking apart the crown they’d stolen for Sips. It was too singular and strange a piece to carry, too fraught. They certainly couldn’t sell something stolen from a museum, not a piece so distinctive. But over a hundred carats of diamonds, a wealth of gold and silver, that they could do something with. So Trott ordered it dismantled and melted down. It pained him but so much had been destroyed already.

The jeweler had taken the enormous citrine from the center of the crown and set it in the center of a silver and gold star. It could be a pendant, or a brooch with the clever clasp hidden in the back. The stone glimmered, a hint of fire in the pale yellow facets. The lingering magic in it gave it more solidity, a sparkle to rival the finest diamond.

“For you, lady Morrigan, with our deepest appreciation.” Trott lifted the box in both hands and bowed his head. He held his breath and waited.

The moment passed in agonizing stillness. He could feel the air burning in his lungs, his heart beating faster, the curious eyes of the fae waiting to see what the witch queen would decide to do. Trott had to hope they could pay their toll and escape Morrigan’s well before she drowned them in her machinations. He did not want to risk their lives in conflict with her.

A cool hand touched his, lifting the box from his grip.

“This is an exquisite gift,” Morrigan said. Her formal voice carried through the room, and sparked envy in the listeners.

“Your mother clearly gifted you with her discerning eye,” she continued. “We are glad to accept this. When we wear it, we will remember you fondly.”

Trott exhaled soundlessly. As he straightened, Morrigan leaned in close. Her final words were meant for his ears alone.

“Well played, prince of the sea.” Her breath tickled his ear and Trott could not repress a shiver. “I hope I do not see you again in this city.”

Morrigan turned away, and walked back to her throne. The fae looked at him with barely disguised hostility. One of the musicians glanced up from her violin, the horns curling from her forehead gilded and decorated with delicate silver chains. Her red eyes followed him across the room. Trott edged carefully to the door, avoiding any eye contact that might allow someone to speak to him and half holding his breath.

In the stairs, Trott leaned against the railing. He did not care if the guards saw him having a moment of weakness. He was dizzy, his heart beating fast. The taste of blood in his mouth and the clammy sweat on his back made him feel sick. He wanted to sink down on the floor, to feel the coolness against his cheek. Only the knowledge that he was incredibly unsafe kept him on his feet. He steadied himself and began the long walk down.

 

* * *

 

Ross eyed the white SUV at the curb dubiously. It was an ordinary car. Smith had stolen it from a dealership earlier in the day, using his inveterate charm to walk onto the lot and cajole a test ride from a salesman just before closing. The car was surprisingly dry inside. Smith didn’t say what happened to the salesman.

“Are you sure is a good idea?” Ross asked again, dragging his feet.

“Yes!” Smith shouted. He slammed a hand on the side panel. “It’s a perfectly good car and even if it wasn’t, we could just get another one. It’s not like we’re going to walk, is it?”

Ross muttered under his breath as he opened the rear door. His suitcase was heavy, packed with the cookbooks he’d collected with Sips. Trott had convinced him they could easily gather more kitchen utensils but the books were precious and Ross refused to leave a single one.

Smith hadn’t wanted to take anything but Ross’ stubbornness wore him down. So they each had a suitcase. Everything else would stay behind. Smith was not very sentimental about possessions, except for his keys and now Sips’ lighter. His suitcase held a strange jumble of clothes and objects.

“Sunshine, you’re not going to crumble to dust once we drive away.” Trott carefully lifted his suitcase into the back on top of the others. It was considerably lighter than Ross’ bag even with a load of gold coins inside. Trott hadn’t taken much either, choosing to carry their funds. The gold would be useful in any realm, and the cash would help them pass unnoticed in human spaces. He’d wrapped his skin up carefully in Sips’ battered leather jacket.  

“I know.” Ross twisted his hands together and looked up at the building anxiously. Their windows were dark. Inside, the detritus of a life remained. What they hadn’t given away or sold would no doubt end up in a dumpster. Trash for someone else to scavenge.

Smith lit a cigarette and hopped on the hood of the car. Trott gave him a long look and sighed. He turned to the reluctant gargoyle staring up at the building where they’d lived for years now.

“Ross. We can’t stay. You know that.”

Ross nodded miserably, not speaking. He stood barefoot and shirtless, dressed only in a pair of worn and faded jeans.

“And it’s not like we’re leaving him behind,” Trott continued. “He’s always with us.” He reached up and touched the rosary hanging around Ross’ neck.

“I know,” Ross whispered. “It’s not the same though.”

“It’s hard, I know.” Trott put his arm around Ross. “It was painful when I left my home in the northern seas. I thought I would die, that my heart would never stop hurting.”

Ross’ eyes glowed blue in darkness on the street. The lights were flickering on, the last daylight vanishing into the purple sky. A warm breeze blew the scent of trash, fryer grease and car exhaust.

“But I didn’t. It got easier. And here we are.” Trott waved a hand at the car and Smith, sprawled on his back kicking his heels against the car.

“Here we are,” Ross agreed. He glanced up at the building. His lips moved, a silent prayer. There were so many places he would never see again. Their apartment. His church, or the place where it used to be. Their favorite diner. The food trucks. The park, with Zoey and the dogs. Ross ached, everything in him wanting to root down and refuse to go. He looked at the concrete and thought about climbing up the side of the building until he could perch on the roof. Maybe if he sat long enough, he could become unmoving, unthinking stone again.

Instead he climbed into the back of Smith’s stolen car and curled up on the seat. Trott put his feet up on the dash in the front, and Smith tossed his cigarette in the gutter before he climbed behind the wheel. The stereo was cranked up, the music precluding any conversation as they drove through the city. Ross craned his neck to stare out the window, trying to memorize the sights and burn the memories into his brain. The sight neon reflecting on the glass, the people on the street, the twisted wires and silhouettes of trees, the buildings they passed, it all slipped by too fast. Ross could feel it leaving him, vanishing into his past.

Smith crossed three lanes of traffic, ignoring the horns of other cars, and roared onto the ramp for the interstate highway. Yellow lights stood high over the road, illuminating the lanes. Headlights and brake lights lit up, the traffic moving fast as it escaped the gravitational pull of the city. A motorcycle roared past, zipping between cars. An eighteen wheeler slowed, moving into the right lane and the exit for a truck stop. Billboards flashed past, promising gasoline and food, salvation and phone numbers for personal injury lawyers.

Ross watched the city skyline dwindle behind them. They were going faster now, picking up speed as the car slipped between lanes. Smith’s hands were steady on the wheel. Beside him, Trott reached back to offer Ross a gummy worm. Sips’ bowling bag was on the backseat, fastened in place with a belt.

Ross took the candy and looked forward into the future.

**Author's Note:**

> My deepest gratitude to everyone who has read and loved these stories over the years. I've been thinking about the end of this series for a long time and I always knew sort of how it would go. I hope you like it. (And if you don't, I hope you write the version you love instead - I am always so excited to read other interpretations of this AU)
> 
> The greatest joy any writer could ask for is to have readers who love their stories, and I have been overwhelmed at times by the comments. Quite literally, this little fandom changed my life for the better and renewed my passion for writing. Thank you.


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